


The Best and the Last

by Catheryne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2018-12-27 02:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 67,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12072132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catheryne/pseuds/Catheryne
Summary: Daenerys and Jon approach the final and only real war as the best and last. Occurs directly after S7 finale.





	1. Chapter 1

Part 1

Their armies gathered—thousands of them all—those that trained on their father’s knee, men who had spent but a week with a weapon in hand, men who knew no life but war, and those that had no choice but to fight and go down fighting. 

Men she had taken from across the sea to this war, she thought, to succeed here and build their lives anew or to perish in soil that was not their own. She watched them now, the disciplined Unsullied who had sailed with her and the wild Dothraki that rode hard to meet them—so different in style and manner, yet both at the same place in the world, sworn to her, their lots cast with hers.

And the snow was a pristine blanket that shrouded the world.

Daenerys pressed her palm on the weathered skin on Drogon’s neck, comforted by his warmth, the life that pulsed inside of him so inviting she dared to close her eyes. And remember—a life in exile just these years past. She had been exiled in paradise.

Knowing that the Army of the Dead marched in this winter brought a chill to her beyond what the snow brought. It was dread she quickly quashed with the determination. 

“I did not spend my life to come and lose what my blood had built,” she whispered quietly to Drogon, to herself. She thought of Viserys and his mad, undaunted belief that he would come home to Westeros in glory, her brother who was raised to know he was meant to wear a crown, that lost prince who would never step foot on this land again.

While she had grown to know no other purpose than to dedicate herself so the rightful heir could take back what was his, what the murderer Baratheon had usurped. Much as he had deserved his death, Viserys loss had propelled her onto a quest for a throne she had never before thought would be hers. But destiny was ever to be her compass. The star that had fallen on the day she was born tracked her fate through the sky. Since the Khal crowned her brother, every step, every decision, every move was towards Westeros, the crown, the throne.

As the last of her blood, this was.

Daenerys straightened, and looked up above her at the sound of Rhaegal’s cry. She watched her child glide and twist in the air, striking awe into the hearts of those who saw him. 

Perhaps it was not the war with Cersei she had prepared for. Jon Snow had said that the one war that truly mattered was beyond the wall.

With the Dead.

Viserys had perished before he could even hope to take back what was taken; Khal Drogo gone before he could hold Rhaego, whom he wanted the most in the world.

She had not been born to rule, a third child, a female even. Daenerys was never intended to be Queen.

But circumstances had made her Queen.

However else this war would end, she had felt the sands of Dragonstone sift through her fingers. She had trekked the path to the castle where she had been born. She had stood in the dragon pit where the end began for the Targaryens.

She knew before she turned that he was approaching. Daenerys turned her head slightly and nodded in acknowledgment, not meeting his eyes. As he neared her Daenerys felt the warmth of his gloved hand on the small of her back through the thick gray cloak around her.

“Your grace, you should take shelter from the cold,” he said to her, the sound of his voice breathless in the winter. “Daenerys.”

At this she could not help but look surreptitiously, not long, never too long. The dead was coming and there was no time for what could be. She was queen, and now that they are here her responsibility was to keep as many of her subjects alive through this war. “Do you have word, my lord?” she said abruptly.

“Not yet,” was his answer. She could feel his gaze on her, searching. Daenerys nodded. “You can use some respite from the journey before—“

A small smile teased her lips, remembering their negotiation for mining dragon glass in Dragonstone. Despite Jon’s urgency to fight, it seemed, her role was to nudge him. “There is a no time for rest, Jon Snow.”

And then she felt the gentle pressure on the small of her back. “You have time,” he urged her. “We will ride to Winterfell. We will need to replenish supplies. Winterfell has arms and food we can use to replace what had already been used this fortnight.”

Reluctantly, she agreed. 

“And have a rest in front of a fire,” he added.

“The Northern lords are loyal to you,” she said absently. “There must be reason we have not had word in the days we waited for the Dothraki. They know you bent the knee.”

They would see her and Jon did, he assured her. But Daenerys had never been one to lie to herself. She was a Targaryen, and the last Targaryen on the iron throne had all but destroyed the Starks, causing thousands of the Northern men to fall.

“My sisters, my brother… They would not betray me. Sansa will hold the North together, and the North will stand behind Ned Stark’s bastard son.”

If the united North was with Jon Snow, he may have hope of surviving this war yet.

Above her Rhaegal’s pained cry once more. For a moment her heart stopped, an image of Viserion falling through the sky and sinking into the icy waters flashing through her mind. “He is unharmed,” he told her. Yet still the sound her dragon made was strained. 

Daenerys called out to Drogon a command, and her dragon flapped his mighty wings and rose. Rhaegal and Drogon flew in circles above them, and then with a thud, sending snow up and around him, Rhaegal landed.

Daenerys called out in curt Valyrian, but Rhaegal fretted. Turning worried eyes at Jon, she told him, “He had not been the same since—“

Jon nodded. He took one nervous step towards the agitated dragon, whose every breath and movement was a hundredfold more overwhelming than training Ghost. Then again, Ghost had been a pup when Jon held him.

These dragons were her children, she told him.

Surely, children would not mean harm.

With a low rumble in his throat, Jon approached Rhaegal. Daenerys watched him closely, prepared to interject should the worse occur. His trembling hand reached up and forward.

“That is close enough,” Daenerys said softly. “Come no closer and let him come to you.”

The dragon’s breath was hot, even hotter than he imagined. Jon could see the weathered skin of the dinosaur as his expression changed, as he calmed down. He did not move. Slowly, Rhaegal touched his nostril to Jon’s unsteady fingers. “Good,” he whispered. “Good,” he repeated, and Jon knew he was speaking more to himself.

And then calmly Rhaegal turned back and flew up to join Drogon.

When he looked back at Daenerys to invite her, he found her staring at him far longer than she had since getting off the ship.

“Your grace,” he said again. “Daenerys—“

“There is no time, Jon Snow,” she said again.

Inside that cabin, all time stood still. In the dim light, on that cot, winter was far away and their world was just the two of them.

“There is no time.” 

“Your grace,” he called to her again, more urgently, more desperately. He waited until she stopped in her tracks and turned her head. Once again, she would not look him in the eye. At least he knew she was listening. “When the time does come,” he intoned, “I would have you know—“

“What would you have me know, Jon Snow?”

“I would have you remember, your grace, that I am the same man I was on that ship, and you the same woman—“

And then finally she raised her gaze to him, “I know that. And that is what I cannot lose.”


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

This was his corner of the earth, this land, Jon thought as his horse took the path up Kingsroad. Like any other Northerner he was near to content to live and die in this cold winterscape. Jon Snow looked towards Daenerys and she sat upon the white mare, wrapped in the severe cloak around her. Her chin raised, proud where she had been warned of danger should any wandering eye spy the silver of her Targaryen hair. Daenerys looked and move like the queen she was, and he could not help but admire her from afar.

It was true.

The world would tremble at her feet.

Her piercing eyes near melted him in the throne room, when he had refused to bend the knee. Little did he know in these short months since he had known her she would win not just his fealty but his heart.

How he wished for the dark, enclosed cabin when she was no one’s queen but his. 

Her tongue was quick, foreign, as she spoke to one of the Dothraki, 

Traveling along the Kingsroad, Jon admires her. She rides ahead of him, and he watched her as she spoke to the Dothraki leader. He could not understand the words, but at the hesitant nod of the warrior, and the curt call he made to the surrounding horsemen, Jon’s brows drew together. Behind him he heard Ser Jorah call to the Dothraki warrior, and Jon determined he would need to learn the language of the Great Grass Sea in the years to come.

Certainly he would need to know. Daenerys spoke it well, and over the years he would want to understand her when she spoke the words.

The Dothraki that flanked her rode forward, forming instead an advanced party and leaving their posts on her side.

“What is it?” Jon asked the knight. “The queen is exposed.”

“She would not hide from her people,” Jorah informed him wearily.

“You said so yourself, a madman with a bow and arrow—“

Ser Jorah shook his head in defeat. “Not a man who had deigned to tell the Khaleesi what to do had fared well,” he intoned. And then with a knowing look, he continued, “Save for you, my lord.”

“I had never commanded this queen—“ Jon started to deny.

“Yet here she rides on the ground and not in the air atop the greatest weapon we have.”

Jon nudged his horse and broke into a full gallop until his horse was by her side. She glanced at him. “I cannot be a queen that cowers from the very people she will rule,” Daenerys told him. “I will not hide behind foreign warriors, like a cunning conqueror.”

With her chin raised, her voice defiant, all Jon could see were eyes uncertain still. How heavy must be her burden, he thought, and Jon yearned to reach out and clasp her hand, to twine their fingers together much like they did on the pillow, when he pressed her deep into the bed, in her cabin, lost in each other during their journey on the sea. But he knew the line she drew, took what she was willing to share—more would be selfish, more would take from their shared goal to secure Westeros.

“I ride beside you not as a shield, your grace,” he said, “but your ally.”

She gave a terse nod in acknowledgment. At her other side, Ser Jorah slowed to keep pace. Jon knew well that the queen knew their true purpose, yet she remained quiet, did not oppose them. Instead she said, “Too many good men have fallen through their good intentions. Do not be heroes. Heroes do stupid things and they die. We have our own destinies, all of us.”

Ser Jorah cleared his throat. “And if our destiny is to fall for you, khaleesi, I shall die a fulfilled man.”

“I would rather your destiny is to stand with me, Ser Jorah,” she said pointedly.

It was perhaps those long years she spent as queen that Daenerys could command men so. He knew not how exactly she grew into her birthright. Stories were few and far between in the harsh and austere life he had led in the Night’s Watch. Yet Jon Snow still managed to catch one or twice rumors of the Dragon Queen, knowing not how to sift fact from fiction, reality from stories made up by the Crown to vilify the returning Targaryen. 

One day, when the War with the Dead was over, perhaps they would life before a fire and he would ask her to tell him tales from across the Narrow Sea. One day he would know her, beyond what she wanted, beyond how to love her. 

One day after the war, when she had made real the future she envisioned for the Seven Kingdoms, they would be time.

Far ahead of them Jon could see that the traveling party had stopped by the side of the road. The Hand of the queen had called for a wee break, so the horses may rest and the travelers could stop to eat and drink. It was a part of Kingsroad far between inns or towns, which would have been better appointed for Daenerys. However, he and Tyrion had agreed before leaving the ship that since Daenerys would be traveling by land, they could at least be safer stopping where there were the least people about to see her.

Daenerys had dismounted before he could walk over to reach for her. She drew the cloak tighter around her body, but he knew this winter and knew the warmth her clothes provided could not ward off the chill. Daenerys walked to the side of the road, off the path, towards the sparse smattering of trees that lined the road.

As the party kept busy tending to the animals and preparing for a meal, Jon followed Daenerys until they were a short distance from the rest. Jon stood behind her, pulled off the fur cloak that Sansa had painstakingly created in the image of his father’s, and then placed it around her. She did not refuse, did not pretend not to need the comfort it provided her. She pulled on the edges to tighten it around her.

“Thank you,” she said to him. In the distance, she was not invulnerable nor impervious to the cold. “Take it back before we return.”

“I will,” he told her gruffly. He placed his hands over the cloak, running his hands up and down where he could feel her arms were crossed. There was no need to ask why, or even insist that she wear the fur on the onward journey where everyone could see. No, that was not the way of Daenerys Stormborn. 

She looked up at the sky, at the ceaseless snow, at the flakes floating down to the ground.

That beauty.

That death.

It would be a long winter.

He tuned out the sound of the men and animals behind them, and easily thought this quiet stillness in the snow was the most peace he had felt in the days since reaching land. At least in this small moment he could touch her.

“Meereen was barren, you know,” she said softly in remembrance. “It was hot and windswept, flanked by dry desert and harsh grasslands. Once I thought how wretched it was to live in that dry windblown heat—”

“I can barely imagine, having been in the North most of my life,” he said, only to encourage her to continue. It was not often he learned of anything about her life before Dragonstone. In truth Dragonstone was the only time he left the North. How many more places she had been.

“It was my greatest challenge.” She turned her face to him. “That was when I learned the difference between conquering and being a queen.” Her gaze was intent on him, almost as if she were trying to convince him. “I will be better than my father and my brothers.”

And in that moment, he forgot where they were at the side of Kingsroad, could not remember that there was no time for anything but this war. All he could see was this woman who was the strongest, most beautiful one he knew—all he could see was fear of herself.

He lowered his lips to hers, tightened his hold on her arms. Underneath his lips hers slowly parted, and she met his kiss. When he lifted his head and held her soft gaze, all he could think was how perfectly her paleness was set against the dark fur that framed her.

And he could not wait to see her in Winterfell, in his home, in his bed.

“Daenerys, I—“

“Your grace!”

Jon snapped out of his reverie at the call. It was the Hand. He felt her quickly shrug out of his cloak, step out of its warmth and back into the chill air. Jon threw his cloak back on and walked behind her.

Daenerys joined her men, easily speaking with them and going around to ensure the army was sufficiently fed. Missandei handed her a cup, and Daenerys reached for it. Briefly their gazes met, and she raised the cup in his direction. Jon gave a nod. And then he watched as she bent her head to listen to Missandei whisper into her ear.

Missandei led Daenerys to the small tents set up by the Unsullied, for their short night’s rest at the side of the road. 

But a few days more, and they would reach Winterfell.

Tyrion Lannister trudged across the snow towards him, looking in the same direction. “How fares the queen?”

“You see her as much as I,” Jon replied. “Hale, determined—“

“We both know what I am asking, my lord,” Tyrion admonished. “For night on a fortnight you were by her side. We have almost been a full moon-turn on land and have barely seen her seek your counsel.”

The nights were longer now, and the days became darker. What would have been a little over twenty days would not be completed, it seemed, until past thirty.

At this, Jon’s lips curved gently, for he was not about to discuss with Tyrion what the Hand seemed to want to touch. “Perhaps the queen remembered which one is her Hand. Has the queen sought your counsel, my lord?”

Tyrion returned the small smile with a chuckle of his own, knowing Jon’s intent by turning the question back to him. “You must be looking forward to seeing your sisters and brother.” At Jon’s fond nod, he added, “What must it be not to dread the very sight of your own family…” And then he patted a hand on Jon’s back. “A few more days, Lord Snow, and Ned Stark’s children will be together again.”

Had Rickon and Robb been there too, Jon thought, then this homecoming would take him back to his childhood, to the happiest they had been—the Stark children complete with their bastard brother. But it would never happen. With Rickon and Robb taken early by the vicious events that had taken place since their father was executed… with his childhood taken by the Night’s Watch.

Thirty four days on the road, Winterfell seemed but a dream, an impossibility in the vast white blanket around them. A rider called to him. A hooded figure waited at the center of the Kingsroad, right where the road forked and by the path to Winterfell. He glanced at Daenerys, paler now even as she was framed by the winter, who nodded to him. She was sturdy, used to traveling long and hard, but it was near two moon-turns since leaving Dragonstone now and as she had told him her journey in the past year took her across a far warmer climate than the unforgiving winter of his North. He needed to take her to Winterfell, force her if needed to soak her body in the bath from the hot springs beneath the castle. Jon rode his horse towards the front of the retinue.

Jon called out to the lone rider. “We are on our way to Winterfell. We mean no trouble, lad.” And then his eye caught the distinct form of the custom blade at the rider’s hip. “Arya?”

The rider pushed the hood off of her head, and revealed a tear-filled grin. “Jon!”

Jon dismounted and walked towards the the girl. For her part, Arya smoothly jumped off her own ride and broke into a run, dissolving into a small girl, hopping on to wrap her arms around Jon’s neck. “You have grown so tall and beautiful, Arya!” He placed her on her feet. “Could you not have waited for us in Winterfell or sent a raven? I had been waiting to hear back from the castle.”

Jon noticed the curious look Arya turned to the retinue behind him. “The army is not mine.”

“It is true what they have all said,” his sister said. Jon looked behind him and saw Daenerys emerging on foot from behind the Unsullied. “The Dragon Queen is beautiful.” And then Arya gripped his cloak and made him turn back to her, “Sansa is beside herself. You surrendered the northern crown, she said. It seems you did, else why would the Dragon Queen be here with all her forces.”

Jon cupped his little sister’s face in his hands. “Arya, I came to Dragonstone to help us fight the Dead. I am allied with the queen to ensure our family, and all of Westeros, survive the Long Night.” He searched her face. She was Arya still, but different now. She was not the same child he left behind. “I do all I do for our people. Do you believe me?”

Slowly, Arya nodded. Jon placed a kiss on her brow. “I believe you, but Sansa is Lady of Winterfell.” She turned to Daenerys. “My lady,” she called to her. At the diminutive title Daenerys brows raised and she looked askance at Jon, but kept a small smile on her face. Jon remembered the smile fondly on their first meeting, when she had refused to bend the knee. “The Lady of Winterfell asks that you leave your army by the Kingsroad before taking the path to Winterfell.”

“Has Littlefinger been putting vile ideas into Sansa’s head again?”

Arya answered, “Fret not over Baelish. We took care of him. And now we would have the Dragon Queen enter Winterfell in good faith, without her army.”

Before Jon could oppose, Daenerys held up a hand to stop him. “This negotiation is for the ladies, my lord.” Daenerys motioned for Arya to walk with her. He could hear them, barely.

“You wish for me to enter Winterfell without my men,” Daenerys stated. “And where are the Northern lords and their men?” was the queen’s query. 

“In Winterfell.” 

Daenerys shook her head. “No self respecting queen would take a deal so foolish and dangerous. Do you think me foolish, lady Arya?”

“I think many things of you, but not that.”

Daenerys smiled, genuinely now, Jon saw. “One of these days, after the Great War, I would hear what are these many things you think of me, my lady.”

“Call me Arya. I am no lady. That is not who I am.”

“Arya then,” Daenerys acknowledged. “Do you think it a fair agreement if my men remain outside the keep, camped within the same distance where the rest of the Northern men are?”

“I suppose it is but reasonable.”

“I am nothing if not reasonable,” Daenerys parried playfully. This time when she looked up at Jon, he could see the delight in her demeanor. “And shall you tell me how many men your lady sister will allow with me into the keep?”

“Four.”

“My Handmaiden,” Daenerys pushed.

“Certainly,” answered Arya. And then, “Jon and Ser Davos are part of the four. They ride with you today, not as King in the North and his Hand, but as your men.”

“Very well,” Daenerys said. He knew Daenerys could recognize the hurt in his eyes at Arya’s words, and ended the negotiation for his sake. “We will ride into your home, Jon Snow. Grey Word will remain with his army of Unsullied, same for the horselords. You, Tyrion, Ser Jorah and Ser Davos with my Handmaiden and me. Let us meet the Lady of Winterfell.”

As Daenerys pulled herself up onto her horse with the assistance of one of the Dothraki horselords, Jon walked with Arya to her own horse. “You may not see it now, Arya, but Daenerys deserves your respect as queen.”

“Cersei is queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” Arya pointed out. “She is queen until I can do what I need to do.” She turned on her horse and galloped fast, this lone rider, to reach Winterfell before the large army did, in order to relay the agreement to Sansa.

He turned back towards their party, but could see no hint of Daenerys’ silver hair. Jon nudged his horse back in to search for her.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

How must kings be, she wondered. The closest she had come to kings were the Khal and his brother - one a wild horselord who knew no other way but his own, and one who was never crowned but lived each day chasing for what he thought was his. She wondered if this King in the North was how kings must be—chosen by his vassals, leading charge in the battlefield, risking his life at every encounter. As she learned from her many protectors the stories of old, Daenerys had created an image of a king. Golden and silver, brave and proud and brash, always towering above them all.

But this King in the North, she thought, was nothing like how she imagined them to be.

In the nights when Viserys raised a hand to her in temper, when she woke the dragon, Daenerys had spitefully imagined another king in her head, one who would never be, one she had dreamed would take her away and show her that all the images she had conjured of honorable kings were true. She had never met him, but from all the stories Rhaegar had been her touchstone. Once upon a time, there had been hope for a kind brother who would not send her sprawling across the floor, with a hand so swift and hard. Once upon a time, the Seven Kingdoms looked to a new dawn once the Mad King died. Once upon a time there would have been a King who sang so beautifully—

But Rhaegar perished in a wide spray of blood and rubies, crushed with a hammer and dead of his wounds before he drowned, facedown in the river.

It spoke so much of her childhood that her most hopeful dreams were of a brother dead long before the storm that greeted her into Dragonstone.

There would be no King of prophecy, no prince of duty and honor.

No hope for her, she had decided, when she woke up again to find Viserys as her only home.

In the cabin, on the bed, when they lay spent in the darkness, Jon spoke of a home filled with brothers and sisters, a mother and a father, of laughter and play and fights, a noisy, lively courtyard. In the darkness his soothing voice was full of fondness, yet tinged with regret. The Stark children, he would tell them, and never count himself as one. Their fingers entwined, hands clasped between their cooling bodies, she could hear his longing for the family that had never truly been his. He had told her of the runt of the litter, his beloved Ghost, a direwolf so white and true.

He never belonged, he had told her. If not for his father, or the siblings who did truly love him as a brother and true friend, he would have abandoned his home. Yet Jon had known what fate lay for other bastard children and had heard over and over from strangers that he had been fortunate to be raised and recognized by Ned Stark.

It would never happen to him, should he have a child. And then the silence between them was deafening.

In the dark night, when Jon fell asleep from the gentle lull of the ship and the waves beneath them, Daenerys turned on her side to gaze at him. In those hidden moments she could admire him to her heart’s content. She marveled at how he slept beside her then, how very deeply he rested, how she could trace the scars of his wounds on his abdomen and rest her palm over the very deep one above his heart. On the road he would wake at the sound a twig, breaking under a boot. On the ship, Daenerys could spend what seemed like hours looking at him.

Perhaps this broken, wounded man, who healed and rose again, who did not take a kingdom but was chosen by people, is what a king must be.

What a fortunate woman would be his one day, a woman who would live beside one so honorable, who would wax with his children and live to please him.

One of those nights his hand closed over hers, atop the scar of his heart. Her eyes fluttered to his in surprise, then saw his half-lidded eyes. He brought her fingers to his lips, his breath hot against her skin. Wordlessly she grasped his hair, pulled his face to hers and returned his kiss.

He rolled over on top of her, and as if she were the subject and he the king, her thighs parted to cradle his hips. She could feel him against her, strong and thick and eager. Her grip in his hair never eased as his head made its way, burning a moist path along her jaw, lingering at the lobe of her ear.

All she could hear was her own breath teasing the silence, the gentle rustle of the sheets underneath her, her gasp when his tongue made its way down her neck, brushing right above her pulse. “Jon,” came the involuntary whisper when he surged inside her, swiftly, pushed into her channel and stretched her. She wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders as he entered her, over and over, long and broad. Her body quickly heated, slick, accommodating, as he worked inside her body. She drew deep gasping breaths, taking each thrust, rhythmically moving along with him, allowing him to push her over and over until she broke.

She could feel him still, surging inside her, even as she settled. Her passage was drenched from her release, and allowing Jon to slide out. Daenerys could feel her slickness on her thighs, and still she longed for him. Jon rolled onto his back. He reached for her hips, then brought her up to sit above him.

Jon raised himself up on one elbow as his other hand guided her. With an angle of his hips he drove up and inside her. Her wetness made the passage easy. She closed her eyes at the stretching sensation as he drew in and out of her. She moved rhythmically over him, resting her hands on his chest as she moved, and then she felt him tense under her. With a jerk of his hips he pumped inside her another time, and she felt him spill inside her, coating her.

Daenerys panted above him as he fell onto his back. Sated she had curled on top of him and allowed herself to drift into sleep.

Inside that cabin she was no queen, but a woman who had finally known how kings must truly be.

How fortunate would be his woman.

But now, in this moment, inside that cabin she was his, and he hers.

The ship’s cabin and the Narrow Sea were far away now, and in the Seven Kingdoms they had forged an alliance towards one singular goal—to defeat the Night King and save Westeros. Daenerys forced the memory to the back of her mind. The gates of Winterfell slowly creaked open to allow her and her party into the bailey.

For every new protector that they had had, Viserys strode into their castles or homes with the sheer entitlement knowing he should have been king. Drogo stormed into villages to pillage and claim them in brute force. This Jon Snow, so different from all the men she had known before, had left this castle its king, yet walked in looking around and nodding in acknowledgment to those who had come to greet him.

Daenerys looked on around her, registered this place which had become familiar in the small tales of childhood that had been few and far between in the nights that they had been together. She could almost picture a little lord, her Jon, playing with wooden swords against a half brother that bested him often, cheered on by a pretty little girl who back him before she did her own full blood. And then after allowing herself the small reverie, Daenerys turned back around her to observe her surroundings. Siege after siege had driven in her a routine in assessing would be enemies.

She truly hoped that the Lady of Winterfell would not fall within that wretched company.

Someone was watching her every move, she knew. There would be dozens. Always there were many that would watch her, anxious to pounce on the smallest misstep. Yet this feeling of being watched seemed for something else, without malice, only knowing. It was even more unsettling. Her gaze turned and found Arya Stark, and then a young man seated beside her, seeing through her.

Around them, based on attire and the demeanor of those surrounding them, Daenerys surmised were the Northern nobles.

Jon looked towards the young man, his brother. Daenerys could feel the emotion coming from him in waves at the sight. “Bran, it is good to see you.” To this, the young man nodded in acknowledgment.

Beside Daenerys her Hand spoke. “Lady Sansa, my bride that never was,” greeted Tyrion. Jon followed the gaze and found Sansa at the deck, looking down at the bailey and all the guests.

When it became apparent that the Lady of Winterfell awaited for something, Daenerys turned to Jon and quietly told him, “Look upon me.” Jon averted his gaze from Sansa to the Daenerys. “Have them meet you at the hall. A king looks up to no one.”

“But I am no longer king,” he told her, “after bending the knee.”

And then, Daenerys placed a hand over his breast plate, right above his heart. The carving of the two wolves just by her thumb. “To them, you are,” she whispered into his ear. Daenerys dropped her hand, as if burned, realizing too many eyes could see her. 

She turned to the Lady of Winterfell. For a moment, her vision swam, so long and tiring was the journey. “How gracious of you, Lady Sansa, to greet your lord brother and king. Forgive me, the customs I know are from the royal household, taught to me in exile by lord protectors loyal to the Targaryens.”

“Customs not of the North,” Sansa interjected. 

“You are right. I am not from the North. I have heard many wonderful things about the houses of the North, such as their loyalty.” She gestured towards Ser Jorah. “My good knight, Ser Jorah Mormont, had regaled me with tales of the loyalty and nobility of the Northern lords, virtues he had fought long and hard to regain in my service.”

A little girl, no more than ten, garbed in furs so thick and black, straightened at the sidelines, her wise eyes curious.

“I am certain a kingdom as noble as he describes would have similar customs.” And then Daenerys looked up at Sansa, met her eyes, and told her, “I suppose you are to come down to pay respect to your brother and lord.”

Sansa’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowed. Reluctantly she walked towards the staircase to meet them. As she made her way, Ser Jorah walked towards the corner where the child had been. Daenerys watched the short conversation, and saw the knight gingerly ruffle the girl’s head.

Jorah was home.

Daenerys briefly closed her eyes, feeling the ground right itself underneath her.

Sansa stood before Jon, and Daenerys looked around her to read the nobles surrounding them. The Lady of Winterfell stood with her chin thrust out, stubborn, strong-willed. Daenerys would respect the girl’s will had there been more time to waste. Instead, without taking her eye off of the Starks, she called aloud towards her companion, “Ser Davos.”

“Your grace,” piped the Onion Knight.

“I will spare my Handmaiden the burden of introducing me to the North,” Daenerys stated for everyone to hear. “From the looks of their faces the Northern nobles very well know who stands before them. Lord Jon Snow had labored in Dragonstone for months for precious dragonglass to arm them for the war, and spent near two moon-turns traveling back with only a mind to save them. Perhaps you would wish to announce his return.”

“Aye, your grace,” acknowledged Ser Davos. “Jon Snow,” he declared aloud. With a glance at Daenerys, he declared, “Lord Warden of the North.”

The bailey was interrupted by the rumble of opposition. Sansa’s lips thinned, facing Jon, yet looking at Daenerys at the corner of her eye. “Is this what you wanted, Jon?” she asked him. “Is this your united North?”

Jon shook his head, then leaned towards his sister. “Not here, Sansa. Before I left I had asked you, never to question me in front of the lords.”

Sansa leaned forward, whispered furiously, “You and I were supposed to trust each other. Instead you bent the knee to a Targaryen without consulting me!”

“You are a child,” Daenerys declared. Sansa turned towards her with angry eyes. “I was around your age when my brother married me off in exchange for a Dothraki horde, lost my son and my husband, birthed my dragons and took a horde in my own name.”

“I am grown, and you would never survive what I had survived.”

“You are a child,” Daenerys repeated, and somehow the words were gentle, not to give offense. “What do you hope to achieve?” the queen asked. “Shall you lead these men to the war yourself, Lady Sansa?”

“I can lead these men,” Sansa answered. “The knights of the Vale ride for me.”

Daenerys was exhausted, and Jon has promised her a warm bed. She could feel the ground beneath her would soon slide under her. But she was a queen, and she had come for the army of the North. Any other day Daenerys would call for her children, but she had sworn never to destroy what had been rebuilt since Aerys.

This was not a show of force.

She searched the crowd for Arya, motioned for her. Arya pushed her brother’s chair towards them.

Daenerys turned to Jon. “There are a great many things in my power to do, Jon Snow. Tell me what you want to do.” She could see the war behind his eyes. 

Jon Snow turned to the lords and declared, “I have returned with enough dragon glass for the war. Yes, I have allied myself and submitted to Queen Daenerys, the strongest and bravest Westeros had ever seen. And I have come home.” He made a point to meet the eyes of each of the lords and ladies. “Look outside Winterfell, my lords, and see the force that we have. I am come prepared for the war. As my sword is sworn to the queen, so is hers to me.” Daenerys nodded, watching him. It was the first time that Jon would need to rally men behind him, to choose him, and it was over his own blood.

This was how a king must be.

“My lords, if you are still with me in this war, as Warden of the North, I shall see you at the hall. If not,” Jon told them all, “we swear that you shall pass through our men outside the gates safe and sound, to face the winter without us. The choice is yours.”

As the lords slowly gathered around Jon, walking with him to the hall, he acknowledged her support with a nod. Ser Davos followed behind his lord. The remaining Stark children and the Knights of the Vale stood with Daenerys, Tyrion and Missandei.

The leader of the knights looked to Sansa, to which the Lady of Winterfell gave a curt nod. The Knights followed suit to the hall.

“I hope you love him,” Sansa threw at her, “that he would give up a kingdom for you.”

Daenerys looked back at Sansa, recognized the spiteful distrust on her face, realized it was out of love for her brother. “There will be no kingdom to give up if we do not defeat the Dead,” she answered.

“You did not answer me,” Sansa retorted.

Daenerys gave a small smile. “I did not intend to.”

“Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys said to the Hand by her side, “will you see Lady Sansa inside as she supports her brother?” She paused. “And watch out for our Warden. We would not want him hurt among all these loyal Northern lords.”

“Of course.” Tyrion offered his arm to Sansa as they walked into the keep, towards the hall.

Daenerys turned to Arya and her brother Bran. “Will you not join inside?”

“My brother has something to tell you,” Arya said.

Daenerys bent low, and Bran grabbed her arm. He pulled her to him, and whispered, “I know something you do not know, your grace.” Daenerys stopped. “About him. About you. About all three of you. I would have us tell him when the war is won. He needs a clear head.” It was as if he was looking into nothingness. “But as fate would have it, they left your side.”

Daenerys stood fast, and grew dizzy. She threw a hand out and Missandei helped her right herself. “I need some rest. Even dragons sleep,” Daenerys said lightly. As she crossed the grounds, Daenerys turned back around to Missandei, realizing then belatedly that the two of them had been left of their small party.

Arya started to wheel Bran back into the keep.

Daenerys turned around quickly and saw just as Missandei’s eyes grew wide. Her Handmaiden threw herself towards Daenerys in an effort to evade the attack. Daenerys felt the cold steel slide into her back, the pain excruciating enough that she stumbled to the ground on her back. Above her she saw Arya Stark swiftly wrestle her assailant to the ground and Missandei kneeling before her, in flustered panic.

Daenerys searched for the wound. She raised her hand and held it up. She could see the blood. Above her were her children, flying in circles, crying out.

“Missandei,” she said softly. Her Handmaiden grasped her bloodied hands in hers. 

“Your grace, keep your eyes open. I will send for help.” 

She whispered into her Handmaiden’s ear, “He is what a king must be. If I die—“

“Your grace,” Missandei sobbed. 

“Missandei, valar morghulis.” She swallowed the painful knot in her throat. She tightened her clasp of her Handmaiden. They were all right—Ser Jorah for his warning of danger to her in the North, Lord Tyrion for insisting she select an heir. Even in this, as she passed, she needed to place foremost the fate of the Seven Kingdoms. “Jon Snow will be king of all that is mine. Tell my Hand; tell the Dothraki, the Unsullied. Follow the King in the North,” Daenerys gasped. And then, with her sight growing dark, Daenerys closed her eyes.

Missandei bent down, pressed her body over her queen’s to keep her warm. She placed her lips to Daenerys’ ear, “…rūso zȳhosy gōvilirose zijo syt pyghas lue prūmie.”

A breath. Two more. The wait seemed a lifetime. And then slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes. 

“You know it is true, your grace.”

Tears filled her eyes. And then in weariness and pain, she closed them.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

For the first time since being declared King in the North, Jon stood alone at the front of the hall. The heads of the Northern houses had gathered still, as before, around him, eager for their voices to be heard. This time, however, his sister stood at the back of the hall watching. This was his corner of the earth, such a small world compared to the vast lands that Daenerys had trekked. This was the corner of the earth he needed to save now, and he will.

The army of the dead had breached the wall.

Jon had known it would happen, sooner or later. Yet the news as it had been relayed to him during their walk into the hall had given him even more urgency. Bran, they had said, had seen it in his visions. His little brother, whom he had left a boy, saw now into the past and the future. And Jon believed him. He had died and been reborn, seen the dead rise and touched dragons.

If Bran saw the Night King breach the wall, then winter was upon them.

All the more reason to unify his forces to defend the North.

Maester Wolkan entered the hall, and Jon acknowledged his presence.

“A raven has come, your grace,” said the old man. Jon held out his hand to accept the message, but the maester glanced at Sansa uneasily. “Tis for the Lady of Winterfell. The sender must not have known that you were to arrive today.”

Jon nodded, and the lords continued their conversations and planning amongst themselves. Sansa unfurled the message. Jon saw the moment her eyes widened and her lips fell into an inaudible gasp.

“Lady Sansa,” Jon called out to her from across the hall. When she looked up he saw the utter fear in her eyes, and despite their tense reunion Jon still could see in her his little sister, one he had not been able to protect these years past. He motioned towards her, eager to take her aside.

“The Last Hearth has fallen,” Sansa declared. The hall erupted, and the few men that had remained with Ned Umbers were the loudest, demanding the most. “Every man, woman and child fell to the Whitewalkers.” She clutched at the message tightly, the roll crumpled beneath her pale fingers. “They are coming for us all.”

And then Jorah turned from his place near the doorway, far from the contingent of Bear Island. He paused, then with a start broke into a run out of the keep. At the sight, Jon pushed through the throng of lords on his path to follow Jorah.

“Jon, where are you going?” Sansa cried when her brother moved past her. “Did you hear me?” she demanded. “We need to defend ourselves—“

Her voice grew fainter and fainter as Jon made his way out through the darkened doorway and into the brightness in the bailey, behind Jorah. The very first sight he saw was Missandei, bloodied, trembling before the knight. The red blood drenched her shaking hands and stained her cheeks. He strode forward to ask if she had been hurt, then Jorah walked forward and revealed the eclipsed figure behind Missandei.

“Jon!” Sansa called from behind him. “We have to—“ Her voice cut off upon seeing the scene before her.

There in a pool of blood-colored snow lay Daenerys broken. If ever there was a sight so vile and against nature it was that of a queen who had broken chains and built an army tens of thousands strong fallen. Jon strode forward as Ser Jorah felt for a pulse. Frozen, he could not breathe, not swallow, not move. The knight looked up to him and nodded. “It is faint, but there. The ice had done well, helped stem the bleeding. We need to have her attended.”

In the periphery Jon knew Arya was on the ground, holding down a stranger. Bran sat in his chair, watching the events unfold, emotionless. Having seen it before, Jon supposed. And he could not know how to feel of a brother who had not said a word.

Jon took Daenerys up in his arms, cringed at the feel of warm blood on his arm, knew the wound was open and bleeding still.

“I can take her,” Ser Jorah offered. And then calmly the knight told him, “You need to see to the assassin and lead your people.”

Jon pushed forward, his command curt. “Keep him, Arya. Sansa, the maester.”

Sansa swiftly turned and hurried back into the keep. 

~o~o~

They must wait, Master Wolkan told him. Be patient, he had said, after Jon had stood by and steeled himself from her cries as he probed and cleaned the wound. She had been fortunate that the knife had not pierced her vitals, Wolkan had said. Yet her skin was ashen, her lips blue. Jon did not count it fortunate. 

He must wait, he bade him.

As Jon sat at her bedside, staring at her face as she slept he played the day over and over. Every move, every word, every sight, searching for every step that had gone wrong, that had led to this. He stood abruptly, and on the other side of Daenerys Missandei straightened. He looked at the Handmaiden, and made a conscious decision in his head.

Jon leaned down and placed a kiss on the queen’s brow.

Missandei bowed her head.

He realized that she knew. Of course, she knew. She would have had to attend to the bed in the mornings, perhaps been the only ear to Daenerys. Missandei would have been a friend. She had told him once in Dragonstone, that she had chosen to be with the queen.

“She will live,” he assured her. The Handmaiden nodded, kept her eyes down on the sheets. “Missandei,” he said softly. When she looked up to meet his eyes, he continued, “she will live because of you. The maester found the knife had missed its mark, did not find its way deep into her flesh because of you.” Her eyes filled. “You did not fail your queen today. I owe you her life.” At this, the Handmaiden clasped her hands together and nodded, the movement of her head made visible the way her tears rained. “Best get some sleep.”

“I cannot leave,” she whispered. And then she looked up, “The queen cannot wake alone.”

He wanted to tell her it would be long until Daenerys wakes. The maester had made special care to give her medicine to help her heal through sleep.

Even he did not wish to leave, but there were matters to attend—matters that required urgency, matters that could not remain unsettled for her.

“Sleep, Missandei,” he repeated, now an unmistakable command. “You are no use to the queen if you are falling asleep on your feet in the morrow.” At the last uncertain glance, Jon assured her, “The queen will not be alone.” 

The door opened gently, and Jon waved Sansa into the room. At this, Missandei left the room.

Sansa looked up at Jon nervously. “I had nothing to do with this,” she started.

Jon looked at her in surprise. “I hated many things about you when we were children, Sansa, for which I had forgiven you,” he reminded her. “But I would never think you would ever do this.”

“Then why am I here?” she asked tentatively.

“Because I trust you,” was his answer. At her look of disbelief, he continued, “I trust no one else to stay here with the queen than you, not while I have matters to handle.”

Sansa nodded, then gingerly took the seat that Jon had left. When Jon pulled open the door, Sansa said softly, “Littlefinger said you allied yourself to Daenerys Targaryen for power.”

“Then it is good that you and Arya had ridded Winterfell of your advisor. It seems he has been whispering to you out of his arse.” Jon closed the door behind him.

It did not surprise Jon to find Missandei in a circle out in the bailey with Ser Davos, Ser Jorah and Tyrion Lannister. When Missandei’s eyes widered, he merely acknowledged with the nod. At the sight of him, the Northern lords moved forward and joined the huddle. Jon’s sight trained on the bound man that Arya had posted in the snow against of the bailey walls.

“We are gathering our men. We need to march tonight,” declared the leader of the Knights of the Vale, representing Robin Arryn.

Oddly then, Tyrion remained quiet, pensive.

“Is she alive?” demanded another. 

The abrupt question was Ser Jorah’s to answer. “Queen Daenerys is resting.”

“My lord, you did not come this far to lose the Dothraki and the Unsullied,” raised Harrion Karstark, the right hand man of Alys Karstark. “If she is still alive, we need to march now. The moment she dies, we will be down her tens of thousands.”

Jon’s hand closed around Longclaw at his hip. He drew the sword out, and the lords stepped back to give him space. Jon quietly turned around and walked over to Arya’s prisoner. He turned to his sister. “Has he given you a name?” Arya shook her head. 

There was no need to ask him why, only who. Jon turned to the man, pulled him to his feet, then unbound his hands. He grasped at the man’s coat, then said, “I will ask only once. Tell me who sent you.”

The man’s face curled in fear, but he remained quiet. At that, Jon released his coat, patted the man’s chest. As the man calmed, Jon placed a hand on the man’s back, then pushed him to his hands and knees. And then, skipping the formalities that accompanied the beheading, having no patience for ceremony today, Jon raised his sword and severed the man’s head.

“Have his body burned,” he said to Arya, who stared unflinchingly at the executed man. “Sister, will you help me find out who sent an assassin to Winterfell?” Arya nodded, then looked back towards the huddle.

Jon returned quietly to the huddle, with his sword in front of him, the point placed on the ground and he rested his hands on the pommel. Underneath the snow bloomed with the dead man’s blood that trickled down the blade.

“I know that we need to cut down the dead in their path,” Jon pronounced slowly. “But for this war, I would have dragons. We cannot leave without Queen Daenerys.”

“And if she dies tonight, we lose the dragons and her army,” pushed Harrion Karstark.

Jon stared at the man, his hand wrapping around Longclaw’s hilt.

“If I may, my lord.” The men turned to Missandei, who still had remained. And then he realized it was these Northmen that interrupted as she had been speaking with her companions. “I have come to ask leave to ride outside the walls and speak with the Unsullied and the Dothraki, to relay the queen’s wishes.”

“It is near dark, Missandei,” Tyrion finally spoke. “Are you certain this needs to be relayed today?”

She nodded. “The Unsullied and the Dothraki are free people, and it would help you all to know their response to the queen’s wishes.” His gut clenched at the knowledge that there in the snow, Daenerys had thought herself so close to dying. His brows furrowed as he listened. “I need to tell them that the queen had asked should she die, the Unsullied and the Dothraki fight for Jon Snow.”

At the words, Jon straightened.

“She has finally named an heir,” Tyrion surmised aloud.

The Karstark man stepped forward. “That is as much sense as I have heard tonight. I can take my men and guard you out these gates and to the camp,” he offered. “Relay your message and we can march.”

As the man walked past, Jon grabbed his arm and said softly. “I know you are worried for Karhold, my lord, and I swear to you I will fight for Karhold.” He tightened his grip, and looked around him. “I will keep my word. But I will not fight with you. If you want my strength marching North to Karhold, I ask you to leave now.”

Harrion glared back at Jon, and then after a good long pause, he pulled his arm out of his grip. He shook his head and stalked back towards the horses.

To the rest, Jon bade, “I will see you all in the morning, my lords.”

“My lord,” Ser Davos began, “I understand your thoughts, but I would not be doing my duty if I do not tell you that your judgment is clouded yet.” He glanced up at Missandei. “We do need to be prepared.”

“She will live,” he insisted. “Master Wolkan has asked that we wait.” Jon drew a deep breath. “If there is a turn for the worse, then we ask for allegiance. Not before.”

“I will not ask them to serve you, my lord,” Missandei started, “until you have decided. But I do need to tell them what has happened. They will wonder why she had not come to see her dragons, or to visit the camp.”

Jon agreed. It would be small comfort to these men who sailed across the sea to serve Daenerys.

Once Missandei had gone, Jon made his way back to the keep. Each step was larger than the last, faster still. Through the corridors, Jon made his way until he reached his rooms. When he opened the door, Sansa turned. He entered the room, and saw the small smile on his sister’s lips. “It seems we can get along, Jon. She is an angel asleep.”

The light teasing statement relieved him, and he said, “The maester has come with good news.”

Sansa nodded. “She is healing well. We should have known the Dragon Queen cannot really be felled with a knife.”

No, she could not. She was Unburned, and for all that she survived Jon knew he needed to have faith in her as well. He sat on the edge of the bed beside her and took her hand in his. Her fingers moved, and her hand slightly closed over his. And then he saw her eyes flutter every so slightly, and she swallowed.

Daenerys eyes flew open, and her free hand settled low on her stomach. 

“Daenerys,” he said softly.

She turned to him, groaned slightly at what he knew would be the burning pain of her wound. “Jon,” she whispered, “please.” On her other side, Sansa brought a mug of wine to give her and soothe her throat. He could see his sister staring at their clasped hands, but Jon cared not. He was transfixed at the way she touched her belly. “Tell me, please.”

And then he held her cheek, felt the hot tears in his palm.

“Your grace, you took a knife in the back,” Sansa offered, cutting through the silence of Jon’s sudden loss for words. “The maester had seen to you. And… and if you were with child, you had not lost it.”

Daenerys looked up at Sansa, and mouthed her thanks. And then she grasped at Jon’s hair and pulled him to her for a kiss, a silent celebration. He closed his eyes and held onto her. 

And finally, as they parted, Jon reached out with an unsteady hand. He lay his palm to cover her belly, and he did not know if he imagined it because his child could not be more than two moon-turns inside of her but he swore she curved slightly more under his hand than she did before.

He was going to have a child.

He was going to have a child with the queen.

He was going to have a child with the queen in the middle of a war.

And his joy was tempered with fear.

For the first time he imagined taking the ship and sailing for Essos, leaving Westeros and the dead behind, finding a life that was peaceful and quiet. But that was not the woman that he loved, to abandon a birthright she had given her all to claim; it was not the man she loved, who sacrificed everything to save them from the Long Night.

That was when they heard what seemed to be thunder, growing louder, louder each moment. Breaking into the thunder were the piercing screams. Jon reluctantly pulled away from the embrace and stood. When he opened the door, Lord Tyrion stood outside and informed them, “Your men have gathered, your grace. We have tried to send them back to camp, but we are surrounded. They wish to see you.”

She was yet weak, and could not stand on her own. The pain that burned into her back was constant still. It would be best to rest abed.

She had insisted, and Jon knew Daenerys better than to refuse her. She allowed him to carry her at least all the way to the parapets. Once there, she had asked him to help her walk instead. Jon supported her waist, and took her weight in his arm. Daenerys held onto him as she presented herself to her men.

Jon marveled at the scene, when Daenerys loosened her grip on his arm and walked closer to the edge of the parapet where she could be seen. The Unsullied pounded their spears on the ground in unison, ever louder. The Dothraki let out a series of cries. Daenerys raised a hand, and her men were silent.

“All of you have given your life to me, crossed the Narrow Sea, and traveled into the winter,” she called loudly. Jon could see the strain on her, the toll it took to speak so loudly and powerfully. “You have made me proud, and I owe you my life. Now we face an even greater threat, a threat which will test us. I will fight, and I will ride with you to the end.”

It was the Dragon Queen, he realized. This was the queen that they chose.

She was the mother of his child, and the dragon inside her, that fierce and brave warrior that would charge into the war, terrified him. How he would keep his head clear in battle, he wondered, if he knew Daenerys carried his child while flying high above the fray.

“Are you with me?” she yelled.

But she could make men follow her to the ends of the earth.

Before him, as far as the eye could see, Jon Snow beheld tens of thousands of the greatest fighters kneel before Daenerys Targaryen.

She was trembling with the effort, the bandage that the maester had placed upon her back bloomed bright red with blood. When she turned around to face him, he saw her gray and ashen. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to fall against him. Jon took her up in his arms and carried her with him back to bed.

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

It was the loss of the warmth surrounding her that woke her now, so very early it was that morning that the sky outside had barely broken. She stifled a groan when the pain reminded her of her wound. What power did he have, she wondered, that in his embrace she could sleep in peace, her pain gone, in its place only him. Daenerys turned to see Jon pulling on his cloak. 

It was yet dark, and yet she knew his day had begun. Despite the comfort of his touch, she knew him well enough to know that he must depart.

Gingerly Daenerys turned on her back, then reached a pale hand towards him. It was only then he noticed that he had woken her. He reached for her hand and held it tight, then settled onto the fur.

“Daenerys Stormborn, lying on my bed,” he said softly. “This is a sight I never thought to see.”

Her lips curved. “Jon Snow leaving in the night is not a sight I had hoped to see either.” Daenerys sat with his help.

He leaned towards her, captured her lips with his for a brief kiss. “One day soon, I would never leave,” he swore to her, empty words with the march of the dead.

“I know,” she affirmed, lying for the two of them as she pressed her ear against his chest, over the heart that once was still, now beating fervently for her. “One day, maybe tomorrow.”

And she could feel the warmth of his palm on the imperceptible swell of her belly. “Rest,” he bade her. “You need it to heal,” Jon reminded her, “and for the little wolf.”

A little wolf. What an odd thing to hear. In many ways, with her heritage so ingrained within her, Daenerys had never thought to bear a child that was nothing but a dragon. And then she was wed to Drogo, and she had prepared for a great stallion.

And then she knew she would never bear a child again.

Now a wolf lay sleeping inside of her.

For once, it seemed simple. She would have a little wolf.

And she wished he would stay, but she was the queen of a threatened land and he was their very best chance. And so instead she told him, “Go, Jon Snow. Your people are waiting.”

Daenerys watched him leave, bound by duty as he always had been. And then she lay back on the fur of his bed and closed her eyes. It had been moments, but much as she knew Jon she knew herself even more. From the bed that filled her senses with his scent, she rose. Thin slices of the sun pierced the gray sky. She pulled herself up, flinching at the stinging pain of the yet healing wound.

A little wolf may lay sleeping inside her, but she was still a dragon, and she had come to claim her birthright. Even before she could, she needed to ensure that the very land she fought for would survive.

The quiet knock on the door was expected, and so was Missandei coming into the room with a basin of water. “You woke so early, your grace. I half expected you would be asleep, to regain your strength.”

Missandei dipped a cloth in the water, and then wrung the excess water out. When the cloth touched her face, Daenerys was pleasantly surprised that it was warm.

“They say that a dragon lives under the castle,” Missandei intimated, “causing hot spring water flowing through the walls and warming the chambers.”

How very slowly they moved, Daenerys thought as Missandei helped with her morning ablutions. Missandei stepped outside and brought in with her one of Daenerys’ dresses. As Missandei laced closed the dress, Daenerys reached for her heavy cape.

~o~o~

“Eastwatch, then Last Hearth, then Karhold,” Daenerys heard Jon from outside the hall. “This is the path the army of the dead will take.”

“It would be a matter of mere days before the Night King hits Karhold with his army.”

She had leaned heavily on Missandei as she made her way to the hall, but at the doorway she released her hold and straightened. For a few moments she remained still as the world righted itself. She did not remember being so ill and faint with Rhaego, yet again she had not been wounded and nearly dead when she carried him. 

For a small second she wondered if she should return to Jon’s chambers and rest, but she steeled herself and sought to remember how she had been ceaseless in her journey home. There was no rest to be had, not when she was the last Targaryen.

She was not the last Targaryen anymore, came the fleeting thought. For this child, she and Jon needed to ensure the Seven Kingdoms.

With her back straight, her hands clasped before her, Daenerys walked into the hall proudly. Whilst in the middle of his thought, Jon’s statement trailed off when she appeared. He gave a silent, resigned sigh. With a slight tilt of her chin, she dared him question her. He held his tongue, as she suspected that he would. She was still queen, and Jon had pledged his faith in her.

Daenerys made her way to cross the hall, and with each of her steps she realized how very large the distance was. It would have been nothing had she been hale, but now the length was endless. Thankfully, before she faltered, Jon had crossed the hall and offered her his arm. She gratefully took the support and walked with him to the front of the gathering.

Daenerys neared his table when Ser Jorah rose from his seat. It was the first time that Daenerys had seen the knight since the attack. Were it possible Ser Jorah looked wearier, but his face held a calm to it that she had not seen in the years he served her. He swallowed, and Daenerys noticed the tears that welled in his eyes. She had only ever seen him so on their goodbye, when she tasked him to scour the world for a cure for his grayscale and return to her side to take the Seven Kingdoms.

“Khaleesi,” he began, that title that had become more of an endearment now, “all I have ever wanted was to serve you. You have always been my queen. When I betrayed you, even in exile, even when I was stricken and survived for you, no sin was ever greater than having failed you.” Ser Jorah drew out his sword, and by instinct she noticed Jon’s hand rest on his own at the ready. And then the knight knelt on his knee and presented the sword hilt first to her. “It deserves no less than death.”

She was not a merciful woman. Where she needed to show strength, she did. Daenerys had men cut down when she thought it would lead to the greater good of her people. Yet in this she could not remove her heart from her mind. While she could not return his affection, she did love Jorah of House Mormont. He was the only person in the entire world who had known her as a child until she returned home.

And he did serve her. Truly, with as much devotion as she could ask from any knight.

“Too many of us can fall to this war, Ser Jorah,” she told him. Daenerys took his sword by the hilt, and commanded he rise. And then she presented the weapon back. “Live and serve me another day.”

Sansa rose from her seat and took the next. Jon led her to the vacated chair, and Daenerys nodded in acknowledgment to the Lady of Winterfell. To the other side of Sansa were the two other Stark children.

Soon enough, the discussion turned back to the war. “If we ride hard now, we will reach Karhold just when the army of the dead arrive,” Jon stated. “We will cut them at their path.”

His words were expected, yet the wave of fear was not. He was a hero. Her gaze landed on Tyrion Lannister. Heroes did stupid things and they die. They try to do the stupidest bravest thing. It was the first time Tyrion appeared to be pity her, and he would never dare speak it. Of course he knew. Ofttimes, she wondered if it was only Jon and her who thought themselves so clever in hiding what they were to each other.

Daenerys turned to him, and said, “You would ride now?” 

He searched her eyes, and then, “Tonight at the latest, you grace.” Jon continued, “With your permission, of course.”

Unlike before, when he had insisted none was needed. To the men in the hall it was because he had bent the knee, and now needed affirmation from a queen he chose. To her, it was so much more.

Daenerys knew her body, knew her strength, and most of all knew what burden she would be at her state. If there was hope of saving lives in Karhold, he needed to leave. And because it was all she could give him, she swore, “You will have dragons.”

“You cannot come—” And then he caught himself, “Your grace, your wound has yet to heal.”

“Jon,” she said softly, ignoring the formalities of title, “you will have my children to keep you. I would have it no other way. Give me until tonight.” 

And then Daenerys stood to leave the hall. Jon stood as well, but Daenerys waved him back to continue. As she walked out of the hall, Ser Jorah and Tyrion followed behind her. On her way out, the door opened to a rounded man who stopped still at the sight of her.

“Your grace,” he stammered at the sight of her. “Samwell Tarly.”

At this, Tyrion dismissed the man and gestured to the right. When they were outside the hall, Daenerys slowed her pace. She paused by the corridor and leaned. 

Curiously, the hand of the queen asked, “Are you all right, your grace?”

“I am,” she answered. “A bit winded from the walk. I am still recovering my health.” 

At this, Ser Jorah helped her into the closest room their could find. When they got inside, it appeared to be a small prayer room. Daenerys wondered if it was Lady Stark’s. She sank into a dainty seat, which seemed at odds with the rusty feel of Winterfell. The door opened suddenly, and as they were not expecting another person Ser Jorah stood at attention, overly cautious now. Arya Stark slid into the room, and at Daenerys’ puzzled look turned to Lord Tyrion.

“Jon Snow—“ he began.

“Lord Jon Snow,” Daenerys cut in absently.

“Lord Jon Snow,” Tyrion amended, “had tasked his sister to find the culprit behind the attempt on your life.”

Daenerys turned her attention to Arya. “And now you have a name?” 

“That is why I am here, my lady,” Arya offered. She took the dagger from behind her, then laid it on the table before Daenerys. Ser Jorah stepped forward and looked down at the weapon, observed the hilt, searched for any sigil. “Any marking you would find is not recognizable against any of the old houses.”

“If your brother tasked you, why are you presenting this to me and not to him?” After all, Arya Stark still considered Daenerys a lady like any other, and refused to address her as a queen. Her brother Jon would always be king to her no matter if he pled fealty. But Arya Stark was young, and she would learn politics yet. “Should he not be here?”

“Do you truly want his head in this just as he charges to the great war?” returned Arya.

Daenerys shook her head. “Tell me then, Arya Stark. I accept that many people wish me dead. Who among them almost succeeded in your home?”

Arya looked to the hand, and it was then that Lord Tyrion stepped forward. “I had fooled myself into believing that my sister would live after we take your throne, at most be exiled or thrown into a dungeon.”

Ser Jorah tossed the knife back to the table. He turned to the dwarf who had once claimed to be his traveling companion when Jorah had been his captor instead. “If you truly thought that, then we have a fool advising the queen.”

“I am a fool,” Lord Tyrion admitted sullenly. “A wishful fool, hating my sister yet holding out hope that when we are bent and gray we would find common ground.” He gestured towards the dagger. “This is a weapon I recognize—one of my sister’s lovers, our cousin, had kept such a blade.”

“Cersei Lannister agreed to an armistice,” Ser Jorah reminded them.

“And this just proves her word is shit,” Tyrion continued. 

The queen’s lips thinned. “That is a pity.” Daenerys looked at Arya, standing straight and face inscrutable. “Your brother needed her army.”

“If she brings nothing to the great war, command me to kill her,” Arya pressed.

“But I am not your queen,” Daenerys said. “You have made that point clear.”

“You are not, but you are my brother’s. If you command it, he cannot object when I ride south and make Cersei Lannister pay for her crimes against my family.” 

The girl was set, eager even, Daenerys could tell. “The Seven Kingdoms would not have needed Jamie Lannister to kill the Mad King, were you alive to avenge your blood,” Daenerys said in observation. And then she shook her head. “Sheathe your sword, your Arya. I have no time to deal with this queen. Let her have the Iron Throne today, and we will come for her another day.” Daenerys reached for support that Ser Jorah gladly provided. She pulled herself up. “I need my horse, Ser Jorah. Will you ride out with me?”

“As you wish, your grace.”

~o~o~

It was out in the cold and the snow that he found her. From afar he saw the lone figure in the distance, the dragons flying above her. His horse trudged on in the snow. He found Ser Jorah patient on his horse watching the queen.

“How long have you been here?” Jon called the knight.

“All day,” was the answer. “No rest or food. And before you ask,” Jorah said, “I recommend you to try to change the queen’s mind when she is set on a goal.”

Daenerys called to her dragons in her High Valyrian tongue. Around Daenerys the dragons breathed fire, melting the ice, assuring her that they were powerful against the whitewalkers. The dragon she called Drogon settled in the snow beside her. Daenerys ran a hand on the black and red dragon’s scales. Jon set out on foot to meet her in the snow. At the sight of him Drogon rose to his haunches and growled. Jon slowed his pace. At Drogon’s hiss, Daenerys turned to face him. He could see her pale, bluish even, in the cold. He took off the heavy fur from his body and stepped forward to offer it to her. The queen murmured soothing words to her dragon, allowing him close.

“He will get used to you yet,” Daenerys assured him. 

“It will take time.”

“Time we do not have,” she said. “The children need to be with you if you march tonight.” It had taken her years to form what bond was between her and her dragons, and what she sought to do in a day was near impossible. “Your weapons will destroy your enemy one at a time. You have seen what Drogon can do. He will save your life.”

“Soves!” Daenerys uttered. Drogon picked himself up from the snow and leapt into the air, joining his brother. He wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Say it,” she instructed him. “Soves.”

“Soves. Fly?”

She nodded. “Drogon,” she called up into the sky. The large red dragon landed before her. She turned to Jon.

“Soves!” he instructed. Drogon huffed and padded in the snow. Jon took a flask from his waist and handed it to her. Daenerys took the wine and handed it back to him. “Soves!” he said again, louder this time.

The other dragon, green and bronze, smaller than Drogon yet every bit as fearsome, landed on the snow near them uncalled. With a loud hissing cry at Jon, Rhaegal took a step towards the two of them. “Rhaegal,” Daenerys said soothingly. Jon released her and walked towards the dragon his a trembling hand. She watched cautiously. Once she had seen him calm Rhaegal, recognized that of her children Jon seemed to have formed some relationship with the smaller dragon. The dragon’s eyes lidded as Jon ran his hand down his scales. “Jon,” she prompted.

Jon took a few steps back, then pronounced clearly, “Soves!”

At the word, Rhaegal stretched his long neck, then spread open his yellow orange fiery wings. With a flex of his thick limbs, the dragon jumped into the air and flew above them.

His eyes widened in disbelief. Jon looked at Daenerys, who gazed up in the sky and watched her children with pride. Emboldened, he called to the sky, “Rhaegal!” As Drogon was imposing, Rhaegal was elegant as he swept across close to the snow on his way back, sending the white powder up in the air and landing before him with a flourish. Daenerys gave a nod of encouragement. Jon gestured toward the empty snow before them and said, “Dracarys.”

Rhaegal pulled back while Drogon settled behind Daenerys. Jon watched in awe as the dragon before him threw out a long stream of fire that created a temporary stream before him, so hot was it that melted the ice. He looked back at Daenerys. She watched him as he made her way towards Rhaegal. 

When he hesitated, Daenerys walked towards him. “The great war is here, Jon.”

“I know that.”

“You are a dragonrider,” Daenerys told him. And then she placed her hand on his face, turned him to look at her. “Jon Snow, if I am a mother to a wolf, you are a father to a dragon,” she said slowly to him. “Rhaegal is yours in this war. And in any war to come.”

He closed his eyes tightly when he captured her cold bitten lips, urging his warmth into her body. His forehead pressed against hers, Jon gave him a soft smile. “One war at a time, my queen.” She nodded, smiled back at him. Jon turned back to the green and bronze dragon. As he neared Rhaegal leaned deeper onto the ground, lowering his limbs. Uncertainly at first, Jon held onto the dragon’s limb. He was encouraged by the gentle murmur that rumbled deep in the dragon’s chest.

He took his first step up, and then another, and found himself seated atop Rhaegal. He looked back at Daenerys, whose eyes brimmed with tears at the sight of her child having bonded with a dragonrider. “Stay low and hold,” she instructed Jon. And with a smile, she turned to Rhaegal and declared, “Soves!”

Underneath him, Jon felt the muscles and scales as they moved and stretched until finally, the great bright wings carried him into the air.

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6

In truth, they were strangers still, he thought to himself, looking at the window of the chambers where the queen had retired . Yet what he did not know about where she had been and what she had done before him, Jon Snow knew deep inside him there was no denying that he loved her. So many men were better than him, he could hardly know why the gods had chosen to him. How had the Old Gods seen the future and forged the past that the trueborn King of the North, his brother Robb, bester than him in anything, lay long dead and he, the motherless bastard of Winterfell, could have Daenerys’ eye.

“Lord Snow,” came the familiar call of Ser Davos.

Jon tore himself from his reverie and turned to the old knight. “Ser Davos, are the men ready?”

“A couple of hours, give or take,” the knight estimated. “The spearheads of the Unsullied have been replaced by dragon glass. The Northmen have dragonglass daggers each. The Dothraki insists on their old arakh, untouched. Such superstitions for such big men,” Ser Davos huffed. And then he jerked his head to the direction of the keep. With a knowing look, he prompted, “Are you prepared to leave, my lord?”

Jon looked back towards the window. “How does one ever know he is prepared? All I know is I must leave.”

Ser Davos nodded. “I knew an honorable man once upon a time. He was true to his word, and his word was his oath.”

“Stannis,” Jon hazarded.

“Aye. He sacrificed everything for what he believed was his destiny,” Ser Davos relayed. The old knight knew that Jon was well aware of the story. Their destinies had lined up side by side at then. For the knight to tell the story meant there was the muted lesson that awaited him. Ser Davos muttered a curse under his breath. “The whispers of the red woman had twisted his mind and he knew not what he truly valued. He was the man I admired most in this world, and now all I will remember him for is the stupidity that caused the life of a beautiful, gentle-hearted girl.” He looked back at Jon, with what Jon could tell was genuine fervor. “Before you ride out, Lord Snow, ask yourself—if this were you last battle—do you know what you value the most?” 

Jon had faced the question before, and he had stood for what he truly believed in and paid for it with his life. Yet even when his brothers in black turned against him Jon never regretted the choice that he made. 

If there was one thing that had not failed him yet, it was his heart.

Jon gripped Ser Davos’s arm in silent gratitude, then turned to walk back into the keep. His steps sure and large, his stride took his to the heavy wooden doors of the chambers in no time. His heart beat loudly in his chest. She loved placing a palm just there, above the wound, as if her touch would take away the memory of that betrayal. In their bed, no memory had ever been painful. 

instead, the pain simply became stories.

He pushed the door open to find her standing by the window. She turned to look at him, and the very briefest of smiles touched her lips. “I feared you would leave without saying goodbye, Jon Snow.”

“If I did,” he said lightly as he walked into the chamber, “call to your children and I am certain Rhaegal will fly me back. Or worse, Drogon would pick me up in his jaws and fling me back to Winterfell to say a proper farewell.” 

As he stepped behind her and looked out the window, their bodies lined perfectly together. Always. They fit each other like a lock to a key. His arms wrapped around her waist, and she held onto his arms. “Your country is so vast and forbidding,” she said as the cold wind blew snow across the land.

Jon pressed a kiss into her hair. “It’s your kingdom, Daenerys.”

“Only because you gave it to me,” she told him. “Leading the Seven Kingdoms may be my birthright, but no one in the North truly look to me as their queen.” She turned in his embrace until she faced him and his hands settled low in her back. “You will always be their king.” He searched for the famed Targaryen anger in her eyes, for bitterness in her tone. Instead all he saw was acceptance. “I see now what many have said before. The North may have bent the knee to Aegon, but the North had never truly been under his rule. Just like the North is yours.” She placed a hand on his cheek, her thumb tracing a long scar that marred his face. “Even tonight, you are the one who will fight for it.”

Jon closed a hand over hers, then kissed her palm. 

“Jon,” she said softly. “I’m afraid.” Her other hand clutched at his. The words were torn from her throat with such reluctance. Her brows furrowed deeply at the admission, and he could tell she had never said the words before then. “When those I cared for rode into battle, I had always been anxious. Now I have this paralyzing fear. You have made me love you, Jon Snow, and now I am weak.”

Even in the silence of their cabin, in the long nights they had spent together, neither had used the word aloud. “I can fight, your grace,” he answered in assurance. “I have Longclaw at my hip, and more dragon glass weapons than there are whitewalkers.”

“Jon, a queen cannot have fear.”

“No, your grace. Every person in the known need fear. I am afraid every time I am on the other side of the wall. I am afraid every time I unsheathe my sword, because as sure as Longclaw sees the world death follows. I am afraid of leaving my siblings. The last time I did these petty wars had taken them.”

From the window they could see the torches lighting the night as the Northmen joined in formation with most of the Unsullied and the Dothraki bloodriders. It was a large host, a fearsome host. Jon would leave a thousand of her own sworn and loyal men with the queen, and take the massive army to Karhold to quash the dead. 

“I am afraid of dying, because it means I am not with you. Fear keeps me alive.” And then, he vowed, “Fear will bring me back to you.”

“Keep yourself alive,” Daenerys commanded. “I am your liege and you must do as I say.”

Jon pulled her away from the window, drew her against him, then told her, “There is one thing you can be to ensure I will do as you bid, without question.”

She raised her brows. “Other than being your queen.”

“Be my wife.”

“Jon—“

There was no time, they would tell each other. Soon enough, when the dead was defeated, there would have time.

“My father had been better than me in every way,” he told her, “except one thing. He let me grow up a bastard. I cannot make the same mistake.”

At the thought of all he had been through happening to her child, Daenerys’s eyes narrowed. She placed a protective hand over her womb. “There is no man or woman in the known world who would dare to call our son a bastard. I will burn them alive before they can try.”

“And what is the assurance that you or I will always be here to protect the child?” he challenged. “Your father was the most powerful man in Westeros, but what did power do for him when the Kingslayer turned on him? Ned Stark had been the most honorable, but what did honor do for him when the Lannisters sought his head?” And then his voice dropped. He drew her even closer, if such was possible still. “And I am afraid, because I love you now more than I love the North. Do not let me fall without marrying the woman I love.” He took a deep breath and released it with a sigh. “I will not ask to be a king or to be crowned. I will not ask for the North. I am asking if you love me enough to make me your husband, Daenerys.”

Never had he been so clear in his mind about what he valued. He had given his all, and if it all broke apart at least he would ride into battle without regret. She swallowed deeply, then closed her eyes tightly. Jon could see the tears that slid from the corners of her eyes.

And then, visibly, Daenerys collected herself. When she opened her eyes and looked back at him, she answered, “I had always been prepared for a marriage in Westeros. I just did not know I would marry for love.” The tension slowly released from his chest. “How?” she whispered. Daenerys had seen a small sept, but not a septon.

One hour past, right when the army outside had formed into its journey line, Jon led her out of the keep and into the godswood. The black of the night was broken by the torch in his hand, and two in the distance. As they neared, Daenerys recognized Sansa Stark standing with a heavy cloth sack in her arm. Beside her was Tyrion Lannister, who nodded in acknowledgment.

Jon led her forward and as they drew closer Daenerys noticed in the light of the torches that they stood under the imposing weirwood tree, right by the silver pond in the center of Winterfell. “The Old Gods need no rites or rituals,” Jon shared with her. “There are only customs in the North, and you and I had never been bound by custom—not in life, and not in marriage.” She noticed the face carved into the heart tree. “Will you wed me with the Old Gods as witness, Daenerys?”

There was no head of his household save for him, and so Jon had asked Sansa as Lady of Winterfell to stand for the North and for his household. It would bring memories for her, unpleasant ones, but she was the only person save for Missandei who knew about the child. Given that Daenerys was the last of her line, Jon had asked her hand to stand for the South, and her house.

Had he the choice, they would marry alone before the Old Gods this night. Yet even as they married for love, he needed to ensure that if neither he nor Daenerys lived past the great war, there would be no question about the child.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Sansa prompted, her voice quiet, unimposing, reverent even.

Tyrion took a deep breath, then proclaimed, “Queen Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, comes here to be wed.” Jon nodded in gratitude. He had just made the hand roll out of bed and given him lines to say, unfamiliar as he was to the customs of the North. “A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

Jon stepped forward. “Jon Snow, of House Stark, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North,” he answered gruffly. And he looked at the queen who was his bride. “Who gives her?”

Daenerys’ eyes smiled at him. “No one gives me, but myself. I, Daenerys Stormborn, give myself to you, Jon Snow.”

“Queen Daenerys, do you take this man?”

He held her gaze. “I take this man,” she claimed. 

At her response, Jon glanced at the ground, and then took her hands and kissed them. Jon led her to the front of the weirwood heart tree and helped her kneel, then knelt beside her. In the silence of prayer, he took her hand in his and entwined their fingers. They rose, and Sansa took out from the sack the thick white fur cloak she carried and presented it to Jon.

“Thank you, sister.”

Jon untied the dragon cloak and helped her shed it. Afterwards he placed the thick white fur around her. In her ear, he whispered, “More than a Dragon Queen, you are now also a Wolf in Winterfell. My home is yours, and you are part of this pack now.”

Her gaze fluttered towards Lady Sansa, who watched them from her place. The lady walked towards her. Sansa gripped her hand tightly, in quiet communion, “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. The world may not know it, your grace, but you are a Stark now.”

~o~o~

The fur was warm, much warmer and comfortable in this clime than her own. She rubbed her cheek against his gift, and then realized it was the warmest she would be now that he was leaving. Gone would be his arms or cloak about her when she was impetuous and would wander alone in the cold. When she opened her eyes she knew they brimmed with tears, as his face swam in her vision.

Daenerys had married twice, lain with two men before him, yet nothing compared to the despair that came along with this love. She had never felt so deeply, admired someone as truly, was this unwilling for him to be the hero he needed to be.

This Jon Snow.

She drew him with her before the army could whisk him away, because tonight he was hers more than he was the North’s. For this brief time at least they would lay down their mantles and not be saviors, allow for a small selfish moment to remember they were man and woman still.

It was not long until they were in his chambers, and Daenerys pulled him to her and kissed him. Her hands made fast work of his tunic, and she helped pull it loose. She burned a wet trail of kisses from his chest, to his neck, to his jaw. 

“My husband,” she whispered to him. A marriage had never been a secret to her. In both her previous marriages it needed to be declared, celebrated in great display, because there was an alliance or power to gained. How curious it was, she realized, that the marriage one did for love should be the one so hidden, this marriage for love could tear as much as unify.

She had no doubt her own men would pledge themselves to Jon Snow once they knew. If one or two or thousands of them doubted Jon as they had never seen him more than a lord who had come for help with his war, or dragonglass for his weapons, or rescue from the wights, not one would question her the moment she told them that Jon was her choice.

These Northmen though, stubborn and proud, would fracture at the knowledge. Already divided at Jon having bent the knee, the more they would be unpredictable at an alliance bound in front of their Old Gods.

When he took her up in his arms and laid her down on the bed, he climbed on top of her and gave her a kiss. She stifled the moan, but the weight on her wound was heavy.

And so Jon lay back on the bed and drew her against him, so that she would not lie on her healing wound. He laid a fervent kiss on her temple and took a deep breath, as if he could carry her scent into Karhold, “I swear you will not wait for me longer than absolutely necessary.”

Light played on the windows as it reflected the torches and fire down below. Daenerys pushed up on her arm, then looked at his face. She hated that the flames outside reflected in his eyes, because it told her of how very aware he was that the time had come. Soon, he needed to leave. She dragged the skirt of her dress over their bodies as she settled on top of him. As Daenerys straddled him, she released her skirts and allowed them to cover their bodies. He sat up, his hands on her waist. Her lips covered his.

His hands fumbled as he pushed down the bodice of her dress. Her fingers reached for the laces they could, and loosened them enough that the top fell freely around her waist. And then she caught her breath, because his lips were on her breasts, hungrily, desperately. She threw back her head, baring her neck to him, and steadied herself with a hold on his thighs. A guttural cry flew from her throat when she felt his scalding hot tongue as he laved at her nipples. 

Her breasts were more sensitive now than ever before, and when the air touched the wetness from his tongue they pebbled and peaked. “Jon,” she breathed, and when he noticed his wolf eyes grew hungrier still, his lips latching on, worrying the point. He palmed the other, and massaged warmth into the cool skin.

Her hips moved, and she felt him harden inside his breeches, his member stiffened and pushed against her. And for the love of the gods, it was the first time she had come so fast, so hard, and she collapsed against his chest a trembling mass, her silver hair spread around her head, onto his shoulders, over the bed. Daenerys breathed hard as she caught her breath. She could feel herself, wet and slick against his trousers. Heat bloomed in her cheeks.

In her languor, she felt him reach between their bodies and his fingers slide towards the heat between her legs. Her hips moved of their own accord, as if searching for him. When his fingers dipped into her heat, Daenerys pushed rhythmically against him, until their movement synchronized. She gasped for breath, and then caught his wrist with a free hand. She stilled him, and then pushed his hand away.

Daenerys sat up on top of him again, drenched, slick. She reached underneath her, and pushed down at his breeches so she could free him. She held his thickness in her hand. Daenerys held his gaze, her moonlight hair framing her face, blocking their view of the dancing lights below. She rose and positioned him at her entrance, took a deep breath and released it as she settled down and he adjusted his angle and entered her.

“I love you, Jon,” she gasped as she moved up and down on top of him, meeting each of his thrusts. They were alone, she and Jon. The army lined below and their torches did not exist in this world inside the veil of her silver hair. Every time he pushed inside her and she accepted, they became more inextricably bonded, more one than two people. And then she shattered again, with him, and he came inside her with every last thrust. Daenerys lay down on him. She could feel some of his seed spilling from her and she gasped for breath against his shoulder as he pressed a breathless kiss into her hair.

And then it was finally time to leave. They had said their goodbyes in the chambers, shared the last of their kisses, exchanged promises in their own world. When Daenerys stood at the gates of Winterfell, all she could do was raise a hand in farewell. The Unsullied and the Dothraki knew their role, and even if the enemies turned from usurpers to wights, they would go to the ends of the world to fight her wars. Drogon and Rhaegal flew above the army, prepared to destroy.

Jon sat atop his horse to lead the North. He had refused to ride Rhaegal to Karhold, and had sworn to be a dragonrider only during battles with the dead when he needed the magic of dragonfire. Ser Jorah was needed in the frontlines, and thus she remained with her thousand men, Lord Tyrion, Ser Davos and the Stark children. Lady Sansa spared her brief smiles when their eyes met, their shared secret easing the opposition that the Stark girl had. Arya, meanwhile, remained watchful, never far behind. She had no doubt that with Ser Jorah gone Jon had tasked this warrior girl with keeping them safe. Lord Bran, on the other hand, stared off into the snow most often. When he turned his gaze on her, she was unsettled.

Daenerys felt the knot in her throat at their departure. The army disappeared in the horizon. She clasped her hands in front of her and closed her eyes.

“Fret not, your grace,” Bran said quietly. “He will return to Winterfell.” Daenerys looked down towards the boy, grateful at least for the assurance of one who claimed to see everything. “I have yet to see if you shall.” The queen stopped at his words. Then, his lips curved, “I will begin looking around for our old blankets. You will find that this winter will be too cold for an infant. Best be prepared.”

Daenerys looked up in alarm, and the first eyes she met were Lady Sansa’s. The Lady of Winterfell forced a thin smile on her face and said, “Come on inside, Bran.”

A call from the watch turned her attention to the road and saw two riders making their way to Winterfell. From afar it was easy to recognize Lord Varys in his robes, but his companion was not as familiar. The horses slowed before them, and the rider dismounted easily, landing on his feet. 

“One brother leaves, another arrives,” Lord Tyrion exclaimed. “Jaime, I assume from the assassin that Cersei sent to Winterfell, that the queen is reneging on her word.”

“Cersei will do as she will. I am here to keep mine.” 

Jaime Lannister walked towards the queen. From the periphery of her vision Daenerys noticed Arya quietly take a place behind her. “Kingslayer,” she pronounced, immediately putting his sins between them.

“Dragon queen.”

“The two times I saw you, you were charging towards me with murder in your eyes, and walking away from my offer of peace,” she reminded him. “And here you stand. How do we know you are not just another assassin from King’s Landing?”

“Your grace, my brother is an honorable man.” Tyrion caught himself, then allowed, “At least as honorable as Lannisters can be.”

Jaime drew out his sword. Under Ser Davos and Arya’s watchful eye, he thrust the point of his sword into the snow. “I will not look at you as the Mad King’s daughter, if you will not look at me as Cersei’s brother.” Daenerys studied him closely, and watched as he sank to his knee before her. “In the war with the dead, I am on the side of life, I serve under the Targaryen banner.”

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

Part 7

The keep itself, with the village outside, lay empty. The free folk had arrived before they did, ensuring those who did not leave after their lord’s raven would be forced to abandon their homes. Many of the villagers would remain in the Gift, while the rest would occupy the Dreadfort. As long as they were out of the way in Karhold, and not traveling to the Last Hearth to happen upon walkers, they should be safe.

He had spoken at length to Bran in the hour before he wed, after all, and Bran in his visions had seen the collapse of the wall and the Night King flying over King’s Landing.

The great big shadow of a dragon’s wings darkened the rooftops, Bran had told him, and Jon knew that the sight would break Daenerys’s heart. He had only ever ridden Rhaegal once and formed a bond with one dragon, and the thought of the Night King possessing Viserion and using him to raze the Seven Kingdoms filled Jon with dread.

The army behind him stood ready to fight. Jon stood waiting for the enemies, and a large wind blew in the cold snow. From the distance they saw the figures approaching.

“Remember,” he called out in the open, “Fell the walker, fell them all.”

First there were several of the wights, mindless, terrifying as they lunged at the men. The front of the lines made easy work of them. When the wights fell even Ser Jorah sent Jon a look of anxiety. Too easy, much easier than when there was a handful of them trying to capture a wight.

And then they came in waves. 

Around him Jon heard the screams of the bloodriders and they burst into a full gallop, cutting down the enermy in their path. Above him flaming arrows of the free folk whizzed by hitting the wights. One by one they fell to the ground. 

“Where are they?” called one of the lords.

His countrymen knocked down the wights, only to have them rise again. “Use the dragonglass!” screamed another, cursing. 

Just as the enemy thinned, Jon saw the massive hulking giant wights, stepping over a few of the Northmen as the Unsullied rushed to the rest with their dragonglass spears. The snow was too thick, he could not see beyond the front of the enemy line. There could be hundreds more, ten thousand or a hundred.

This was not right, he thought, as the waves slowed down. Less than a quarter of his men were fighting, and the battle had slowed down. 

“Rhaegal,” he called to the dragon overhead. Rhaegal flapped his wings and glided towards him. As Jon pulled himself atop the dragon, he heard Drogon let out a loud cry above him. Terrified at the sound, fearing Daenerys’s ride had been hit, he looked up and saw instead that Drogon had taken off away from the fight. He whispered the instruction, and Rhaegal flew above the battle. Watchful, Jon guided Rhaegal above the army of wights, past the thick snow that blocked his sight.

The Night King was nowhere to be seen. There must have been a couple thousand of the wights, no more than that. At the very back of the fighting were three walkers. His eyes narrowed. The whitewalker appeared surprised when Rhaegal approached headfirst towards him. The whitewalker raised his weapon towards them, and Jon growled, “Dracarys!”

The stream of dragonfire burned the walker, causing majority of the wights to fall. Jon turned his attention to the two remaining walkers. With a piercing cry he saw them retreat with the dead, and Jon chased them on Rhaegal.

Beneath him, Jon watched the Dothraki in hand to hand combat, while the free folk took aim at the farthest walker. The leaders were clear with the command, and it seemed they were searching for the walkers that controlled the wights.

Grey Worm spotted the walker and made for him. The Unsullied shields raised to protect him in his pursuit while the Northmen cut down the oncoming droves. With a strong throw of his spear, Grey Worm felled the walker and like their magic, the wights fell around them.

“Soves.”

Rhaegal flapped his wings powerfully, and Jon gritted his teeth at the cold. When he could see the larger span of the land, his heart raced inside his chest. They were in Karhold now, the eastermost land of the North, and defended the keep in resounding victory. He had taken all the men save for those that guarded Winterfell.

Jon looked down at the North from the sky, and saw the army of the dead like a knarled hand spread wide, forking like fingers in all directions where there was life. A line going west, to Deepwood Motte; a line heading to Dreadfort; one making its way to Queenscrown; and the thickest line of all on its path towards Winterfell, ahead of his army.

He had been fooled, putting together snippets of visions and messages into a strategy that the Night King would follow. First the Last Hearth, and then Karhold, to cross through Winterfell on the way to King’s Landing. He made his way back on the dragon to the command center where even now his and Daenerys’s most trusted advisors had gathered.

Battle worry, worn from experience, they knew as well as Jon that the siege of Karhold was not as expected.

He landed Rhaegal in the snow. He could hear the celebration that erupted when the last wight fell. He looked up to see Grey Worm making his way to him, his face grim. 

Grey Worm had served by Daenerys side long, and had seen his men bleed more than today. “This was not the war,” he said.

Jon looked at the men surrounding him—Ser Davos, Ser Jorah, Grey Worm, even Lady Brienne. All of them he had led east. Save Ser Davos, Jon had taken every one of these brave souls away from who they had sworn to protect.

“I need ravens,” he said to Ser Davos. “We need to send a raven to all the houses in the North.” He looked at each man grimly. “The Night King has divided his army. Even now they are closer to the houses than we are, stuck here with an abandoned hold.”

“We need to ride hard for Winterfell,” Ser Jorah concluded. “We need to take this army to the seat of the North to defend it.”

There was nothing more that Jon wanted to do now. The Night King was ahead of them. Yet the Night King had given him no choice. “We need to release these men,” Jon decided. “They need to defend their own houses, their own families.”

“That is what the Night King wants. He wants us weaker, and that is exactly what we will be when we splinter this host,” Ser Jorah argued.

“I would do anything right now to be back in Winterfell, protecting my family,” Jon returned. “I will certainly not expect these men to defend my house while theirs are attacked and then families murdered or worse—” He turned to Ser Davos. “Call the lords. They are marching home today. Lady Brienne!” The lady pushed through the men that surrounded Jon. “The army will be too slow and we are already too far from where we need to be.”

Brienne of Tarth nodded curtly. “I will ride to Winterfell, my lord, and I will defend your sisters with my life.”

He shook his head. “We received word a few days ago that Jaime Lannister had found his way alone to Winterfell and swore an oath to Daenerys. He had been awaiting our word on where to meet the host. Do you trust that he can hold the keep until I arrive?”

The lady frowned thoughtfully, and then responded, “What Ser Jaime lacks in agility now he makes up for with strategy. He will make use of the men we had posted, and if he had sworn himself to the queen then he will keep his oath.”

“Then Lady Brienne, I need you to take men with you and ride to the Dreadfort.” 

“My place is by your sisters’ side.”

“Keep the walkers from turning more wights that will cross the river towards Winterfell, and you would keep your word to Catelyn.”

Reluctantly, Brienne acquiesced. Jon turned to Ser Jorah, who met Jon’s grim face with a look of disbelief. “Ser Jorah Mormont, I need you in Deepwood Motte, closest to Bear Island.”

~o~o~ 

Daenerys stood at the stone parapet, the wind whipping swirls of snow across the vast open land before her. The small force of the remaining Unsullied and Dothraki were inside Winterfell’s walls now, the keep having been near emptied as the Northmen joined Jon. Near ten thousand men she had given him to march, her two dragons, and soon she knew his forces would be bolstered by his friends, the free folk, who would join him on the way to Karhold.

Yet still each morning she looked out into the vast empty lands awaiting his return.

Soon she would join him. Like the Targaryens that came before her, she was no queen to wait on a throne while others fight and fell for her. Each day she grew stronger, the wolf that slept inside her giving her strength, helping her heal. The dragon in her blood fueled her. 

“Queen Daenerys,” came the familiar call from below in the bailey as she descended from the ramparts. 

“Ser Jaime,” she greeted back, her voice cool. The knight had been in Winterfell for a few days now, awaiting word from Jon. He would fight alongside the King in the North, Jaime had told her, in her service, of course. Daenerys had expected this inquiry of course, had hoped at least this morning she could await word from her husband in peace. “I hope you have been training these past days using the dragonglass blade. A one handed man will need all the skill to face the dead, and to earn the right to fight alongside Lord Snow.” 

Ser Jaime cocked his head to the side. “Is that why Lord Snow’s raven seems to have mysteriously missed Winterfell? I was afraid you had thought to turn me into a glorified sentry. I could have done that in King’s Landing.”

Daenerys’s brow arched, remaining several steps above him. She had told Jon once, that kings do not look up to any one. She practiced it well. “Believe it or not, Ser Jaime, I may be more eager for a raven than you are.” She took a few steps down until her boots dipped into the snowy ground, her lips curved. “But if you think I will allow you to fight under my banner until I have seen that you can truly fight in combat—“ Her eyes turned to slits “—and not just stab unarmed old men in the back.”

“Are you really pitting one of your eunuchs against me?” He shrugged. “A maimed man against a maimed man. Sounds fair enough.”

“The leader of my Unsullied is fighting with Jon Snow,” Daenerys informed the knight. His eyes followed her as she walked. “No.” She shook her head. “I will not take another from their post in keeping this keep safe. I would have you fight the true sword master.” She nodded towards the gate.

Ser Jaime looked behind him. Arya Stark stepped forward with a smirk. He almost laughed, and then Arya drew her sword out of its scabbard and lunged.

“You are insane,” he threw back. “I am not fighting a young girl.”

Daenerys looked towards Arya. “Don’t hurt him too much,” she told Jon’s sister. “With any luck, he might be good enough to carry the banner.”

And then Arya wielded the thin blade. Jaime was forced to draw his own weapon to defend himself. Daenerys studied them closely, watching the agile footwork that Jaime Lannister exhibited as he tried to avoid injury. Jon’s sister was unforgiving. Younger and lighter, Arya fought circles around Ser Jaime, wearing down the knight.

She could have been playing with him, Daenerys thought, until she glimpsed the raw intent in Arya’s face. 

Jaime stumbled on his feet, and Arya’s firm hand fell on his back. She pushed down until Jaime was face down in the snow. Quickly, the knight turned on his back and raised his sword, which Arya forcefully knocked out of weak left handed grip. Ser Jaime swallowed, the point of Needle pricking his throat. Daenerys could see the bright red drop of blood on his neck.

And then Arya said to him, “Robb and mother send their regards.” She turned her wrist.

Before she could press forward, Daenerys called sharply, “Arya, I think we have sufficiently assessed Ser Jaime’s readiness for battle.” When Jon’s sister did not move, she pressed, “Thank you, Arya. That will be all.”

Arya turned her head to Daenerys. And then she released Ser Jaime and slid Needle back into the scabbard. “As you wish.”

Jaime Lannister stumbled to his feet. Wide eyed he turned to Daenerys while pointing to Arya. “What is she?” he demanded.

“She is the daughter of Ned Stark, Ser Jaime,” Daenerys answered.

Jaime’s lips curled. “You asked us to join you in the war with the dead,” he stated. “Now I have come to join you.” He stalked towards her and gripped her elbow. “Is this truly how you would make use of me? I was the finest swordsman in all of Westeros.” 

“You were,” she emphasized. 

Daenerys did not flinch. She met his glare, and saw the moment that Needle rested under his chin. “Get your hands off of the queen,” came the quiet command.

Jaime stepped backwards and raised his hands.

“You are not the swordsman you thought you were, Ser Jaime,” Daenerys pressed. “That is fine. If you fight for me I swear I will care for you as much as I have for every one of my men. I am not sending you half-prepared to the great war. You will get yourself killed. Now,” her voice hardened, “take up the blade and strengthen your left, or find better use for your skills.”

Above them, in a distance, the black bird was visible in the falling snow. Daenerys picked up her skirts and walked quickly towards the maester to receive the message. 

Halfway across the courtyard, Maester Wolkan met her with the rolled message in his hand. Daenerys unfurled the message. When she read the words, she looked up at Maester Wolkan. “Thank you, maester. Will you see to me tonight? I want to know how soon I can fly.” The maester nodded, and excused himself to disappear into the keep. Daenerys turned around to find Jaime Lannister watching her carefully. She took a deep breath. 

Jon’s sisters padded out of the keep and breathlessly stopped before her. “Is he well? Did they defeat the Night King’s army?” asked Sansa.

“Your brother is well,” Daenerys answered. “Lady Sansa, are we stocked well with arms and weapons?”

The elder Stark girl nodded. “Most of what we had were brought to Karhold with the host, but we are stocked well for the men we have. And we can make more.”

Daenerys nodded. “Will you see to it that the smiths work day and night to force the dragonglass?”

“Of course.”

“What is happening?” Arya pressed. “What has Jon said?”

“The army of the dead in Karhold had been defeated. But the Night King had spread his army towards the houses. The largest host will be upon us in five or seven days.”

“And Jon?” Arya prompted.

“The host travels far slower. Ten, perhaps fourteen,” was Daenerys’s answer. 

“Jon will take a small group of men,” Arya assured. “We will not allow the Night King to reach us before he does.”

But a small group of men was not enough. Two thousand of the men in Winterfell would not be enough. She turned to Jaime. “Lord Tyrion speaks highly of you as a strategist, Ser Jaime. Tell me, shall we empty the keep and ride South? Or should we stand our ground in Winterfell and pray two thousand men can withstand five?” Taken aback, Jaime Lannister stared back at Daenerys. “Please join the hand of the queen in small council tonight. I would hear from you. You may serve me yet.”

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The title comes from Prospice by Robert Browning.

Part 8

It was before the heart tree that she found them, one who knelt with her head down in prayer, another who sat staring at the bone-white trunk of the weirwood. Several paces from them stood their youngest Arya, the girl stubborn enough and set in her ways that she who would not address her as a queen. Arya watched the two blankly, patiently. 

“Does your brother see anything?” Daenerys asked idly as she stopped beside Arya. Perhaps Bran would see if they would survive, or if Jon had left his family with her to die.

“He tries,” answered the young woman. And then a smirk teased her lips. “Maybe Bran can tell us how to kill the wights.” 

“Your sister is praying.”

The younger woman’s expression softened, and much as she had seemed unaffected before Arya seemed to genuinely care for the older Stark girl. “She has always had better faith than me—better at everything than me,” Arya offered. 

How very like Jon she was. Daenerys recognized her husband in the sister. In those few unguarded moments when Jon would speak of his lost father and brother, she could fear how admiration throbbed in his voice, how very much he thought he could not measure up.

She had refused to sink into these thoughts. When Ser Barristan had called Rhaegar the last Targaryen, as if that nobility had been lost in the rebellion, Daenerys had been quick to correct him.

Nobility had not been lost. The right to the Iron Throne and to take the Seven Kingdoms still pumped hotly inside her veins. The Targaryens had not faded with the times.

There exiled in that desert, Daenerys survived.

And now, she thought proudly, she and Jon had together ensured that she would not be the last.

Arya glanced at Daenerys briefly, before looking back towards her siblings. Her hand closed over the pommel of the sword than now always rested on her hip. “She was good with the needle, even made the stupid dress she wore when our whole life changed, when the king came to collect my father to be his hand.”

Daenerys smiled. “I think she made this cloak,” she said lightly, glad for this moment so ordinary, while outside the work had begun, the craftswomen churning and forging dragonglass blades and other weapons.

Arya assessed the white fur around the queen. “She made you look like a Stark. I can’t make one like that.” She shrugged. “Jon was the only one who understood. He gave me my sword, so I named it Needle.” She drew the thin blade. “I’ll use this to kill the walkers. And then when it’s dull from all the dead, I’ll use this.” Daenerys watched as Arya displayed the beautiful Valyrian dagger, its plain blade belied by its dragonbone hilt. The young woman nodded towards her sister. “Never envied Sansa as much I do now,” she shared. “Her faith calms her. If I had her faith I could set my mind at peace while the dead are coming.” Arya paused. She took a deep breath, then raised a hand that trembled in her glove. “I wish Jon were here.”

From the corner of her eyes, Daenerys spied Jaime Lannister walking with Tyrion around the godswood, looking around, studying Winterfell. Tyrion and Jaime, the only living male heirs of the Lannisters, were inside the Stark stronghold, both at her invitation. She knew that Jaime and Tyrion both were there to understand their best defense. Still, they were strangers—strangers whose family had caused the deaths of Starks.

By impulse Daenerys reached and closed her hand over Arya’s trembling one. When Arya’s surprised eyes flew to hers, Daenerys asked, “Not better. Different. We all have faith, not in the same gods, or things, or even trees. I told your brother when we met that I survived all the years in exile because of my faith. Do you know what I have faith in?” Arya shook her head. Daenerys tightened her grip on Arya’s hand. “In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. What do you have faith in?” she pressed.

The young woman was silent, holding her gaze as she looked deeply into herself. “Family,” she finally proclaimed. “I have faith in family. And half of them are gone.” She swallowed. “And now Jon has gone fighting, and the walkers are coming for us.”

The queen released her grip on Arya’s hand. She parted the fur cloak in front of her, and then placed her hand over the dress, shaping it well until her slightly rounding belly could be distinguished. The child was small, too small still. 

From the look in Arya’s eyes, it did not matter that the little wolf was barely seen. The young woman met Daenerys’s eyes with a look of confusion. When it dawned on Arya, her eyes brimmed with tears. She did not speak.

“So I need you to have faith,” Daenerys said firmly, letting her cloak fall before her once again, “and to know what we are all fighting for.”

Arya nodded, brushing away the tears that lingered in her eyes, not allowing them to fall. Arya no longer cried, after all.

“I cannot do needlework either,” Daenerys confided.

~o~o~

It was punishing ride, this he knew. Jon Snow had pushed forward into the thick snow, guided only in the day by the clearing of the trees on the worn road and the stars that seemed fainter and fainter in the night. The Targaryen host behind him rode as Daenerys knew they would ride, ceaseless, untiring, to the end. Even then, Jon Snow knew they would have to stop. 

The dead did not stop for food or rest, and for their sleep the dead would take the distance more and more. 

He had fought the need, but as the horses stumbled and the men slowed, he signaled the command to stop. Above him Rhaegal flew still, in search of something he did not know. Drogon had flown and never returned since Karhold.

“You are no use to use if you fall. Have your supper,” Ser Davos reminded. 

Jon nodded, albeit reluctantly, and held onto a banner that had been thrust in the ground. 

“It suits you, my lord, to lead such a great army.”

He turned in the freezing cold and looked around him, in awe at the large host that followed him. The Northmen had gone, as so had the Knights of the Vale. With them he had taken care to send thousands of Daenerys’s own men. The fight they would meet in their homes would require more than the Northmen left of Robb’s war. If he was sure of anything, he was certain that Daenerys would want her men defending the North, stubborn as their lords were.

Someday these Northmen would know all that she had done, would see her as he did, and they would kneel before their queen.

Even as the Targaryen host had splintered, behind him was more men than he had ever hoped to have, more men than Cersei’s, more men than even Aegon the Conqueror. All these men, foreigners from across the sea, risking their blood to fight for hers.

She had inspired them all.

She was the queen they chose, Missandei had told them once. She was the queen that Westeros deserved, he knew.

“You look like you were born to it,” Ser Davos called to him as he clutched the Targaryen banner. The old knight approached him with a piece of hare. Jon reached for the piece, still hot from the fire. He took a large bite of it before it cooled in the air. “The bastard of Winterfell, riding before the royal banner.”

Jon chuckled, grateful that Ser Davos still could see light in their circumstance. His own thoughts were in Winterfell, but knew he needed to give this rest to all of them. In a distance Rhaegal settled in the snow, far enough from the men who still feared the tremors of his breath. Even the dragon could not fly so fast.

He settled before the fire and asked, “What would do when the war is won?”

Ser Davos laughed as he took a swig of ale for warmth. “Sleep and drink,” was his swift answer. “That is what old men do when they have no wars to fight.” Jon nodded in agreement. “And you,” Ser Davos turned to him. “You are young, my lord. Find a wife and have yourself some children.” Jon stared at the dancing fire and smiled. “There are no princesses left in the Seven Kingdoms,” Ser Davos observed. Most of the old houses had died. “You would have made a good alliance.”

“No princess, no one to arrange an alliance,” Jon agreed.

“At least you have yourself a queen,” Ser Davos parried. Jon looked quickly up to him, surprised. “I am old and I am not a fighter, but I am not blind. And don’t tell me there is no time, my lord. If there is anything old men know, it is that you have to make time for those that matter.”

At the words, Jon gave a small smile and nodded in silent gratitude. “I may not be King in the North, but I still take your counsel, Ser Davos.” Jon looked up at the faint twinkling stars. 

“Go on,” urged Ser Davos. “We have nothing to do while the horses rest and the men eat. You’re not going to sleep,” was the wise remark. “What will you do when the war is won?”

Once Beric Dondarrion told him beyond the wall, that he would not find much joy in life, but he could keep others alive, defend those who can’t defend themselves. 

When the war was won he would make the Northern lords bend the knee. When the war was won he would bring her the Iron Throne. When the war was won he would give her everything she had come for, everything she deserved.

“Take a wife, have myself some children,” he said instead.

~o~o~

“Close to one hundred thousand Dothraki and eight thousand Unsullied sailed with you from Essos. Jon Snow has ten thousand Northmen sworn to him. Lady Sansa, twenty thousand Knights of the Vale,” Jaime Lannister recounted as he sat at the table of the makeshift council in Winterfell. He turned a withering look at his younger brother. “One hundred and thirty eight thousand men in your army, and the queen is left in an old castle with a measly two thousand.”

“Ser Jaime, this old castle has been the best fortified holding in the North since the the wall was built,” Lady Sansa interrupted.

“The army is in Westeros to fight the war, and that is where we sent the army,” Lord Tyrion defended, his defenses engaged.

“Why not send every last man to where you thought the war was then?” Jaime needled.

“Lord Snow wanted to ensure the queen is protected,” Lady Sansa spoke, her voice strong and certain. She had only been the Lady of Winterfell for a short time, but Daenerys was glad that Jon’s sister had grown into her role with the elimination of her advisor.

Jaime turned to Tyrion. “Did the men you sent in advance tell you how many of the dead marched to Karhold?” When Tyrion did not respond, Jaime continued, “You sent no advance party.”

Tyrion’s lips thinned. He shook his head. Daenerys knew Lord Tyrion would not share that the decision was made by Jon, after learning that the dead had breached the wall through Bran’s visions. It was only recently that they had made a believer out of Jaime Lannister. Certainly Tyrion would not want to test the strength of his belief.

“You sent all your forces and left your queen exposed, knowing nothing?”

“Ser Jaime,” Daenerys cut in coldly. “In my council we are not in the habit of finding blame. Who could know what your decision would have been, if you had seen the army of the dead on the other side of the wall. But you have not, so there is no use for blame.” Lady Sansa’s fearful eyes flew to her. “We are at war, and I am vastly outnumbered. Do we hold Winterfell or flee?”

Lord Varys shook his head and stepped forward. “You cannot flee due south with two thousand men, your grace. I have heard whispers that Queen Cersei had bought herself an army of ten thousand.”

“How many men in all?”

“That gives her forty on land.”

“Forty?” Daenerys repeated.

Sansa nodded. “Half of the fighting men in King’s Landing were lost to Stannis, Robb and Renly. Cersei has no men loyal to her, not like you.”

Jaime shook his head. “Count the ten thousand as thirty. Those sellswords are the best in the world.”

“The Golden Company,” Daenerys said. Jaime nodded, surprised it seemed that she would know a group of sellswords, not knowing she had mercenaries at her service long before she set food on Westeros. She remembered the stories Ser Barristan had recounted of his storied deeds, one of which was when he had ridden into the Golden Company and cut down its leader Maelys the Monstrous.

How she could use his guidance now, and his sword.

“Is it too late to hope that my sister contracted them to fight the wights?” Lord Tyrion piped in. Jaime’s brows met and he glared at Tyrion. The hand shrugged. “I have always been the more idealistic of us, brother.” Lord Tyrion took a cup of wine and drained it at once.

“So we hold Winterfell,” Jaime decided. 

The Lady of Winterfell nodded somberly. “Winterfell has served the Starks for thousands of years, your grace.”

Jaime looked at Daenerys. “Do you agree, your grace?” 

Daenerys nodded. “How do we defend her?”

Jaime took the pieces that had been used before, likely by the last Lord of Winterfell. “I have seen the men you have. One thousand bloodriders,” he said, and placed the pieces outside the line that stood for the keep. “Five hundred fighters on foot,” Jaime recounted, referring to the Unsullied, “And five hundred at the bow,” he said of the Northmen. “We know your strength. What are your enemies’ weaknesses?”

“Fire,” offered Lord Tyrion.

“Your dragons are with Lord Snow,” Jaime said wearily. 

Tyrion shook his head. “Dragonglass,” he added. 

Daenerys nodded. “We are forging weapons out of it.”

“Do we know what they want?”

“Aside from destroying the Seven Kingdoms, no.”

“How can we fight an enemy if we don’t know what they’re fighting for?” Jamie questioned. He gestured towards the queen. “You and Cersei can be at war. You know what you both want - the Iron Throne, power. You want to rule.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed. 

Break the wheel, she thought to herself. She was there to break the wheel that had caused so many to suffer and die underneath the punishing wheel. Every man that rises in the wheel, sinks to the ground.

“Do not presume to know what I want,” Ser Jaime. “I was queen in Meereen; I ruled the Bay of Dragons. If all I wanted was a throne, I would have stayed.”

Tyrion interjected, “Share your plan, brother. What shall we do?”

Ser Jaime nodded. “The Dothraki are a force outside the keep. We keep them outside the keep. Forge their arakh with dragonglass. Let them cut down as many of the dead as they can.” He touched pieces on the table. “The bowmen you put on the parapets to shower flaming arrows. You can break up the numbers before they are close enough to your walls.”

“The Unsullied?”

“Between the embrasures of your ramparts they will cut down your enemies climbing the wall as they try to overwhelm you from above. They will defend the keep when the dead break down the portcullis.”

Daenerys nodded. She took a deep breath. “I will have my hand’s counsel.” 

“You have it always,” answered Tyrion.

Daenerys met Lord Tyrion’s eyes. “I had lost the commander of my Queensguard in Slaver’s Bay,” she rued. “If Ser Barristan were here I would rest easy.”

“Ser Barristan the Bold?” Jamie inquired. Daenerys nodded. “I squired for the man. I knew him well.”

“Then you were fortunate,” Daenerys returned, “to have learned of knighthood from Ser Barristan. I know of no knight more honorable.” 

“Your grace, I have not seen the battles he had seen, not served you long. But I swore myself to fight for you in this war, and I hope you will trust me enough to rest knowing I will keep my oath.”

Daenerys stood from the table. Having lived the life she had lived, ferrying between loyalists who were only loyal until they were tired of holding out hope of coming home and receiving their reward, allowing herself to be lulled by the kindness of Viserys until the dragon woke and he hit her, Daenerys guarded her trust with all she had.

“Ser Barristan risked his life to find me in exile, before I was ever a real threat to your sister. Ser Barristan saved me from an assassin in Astapor before he even knew I was untouched by madness. Ser Barristan died saving me and my people from the Sons of the Harpy.” She swallowed, emotion a knot in her throat. “Tell me, Ser Jaime, what have you done?” When Jaime stood abruptly and turned to walk out, Daenerys called to him, “Save Winterfell and earn that trust, or walk away now and admit you are not good enough to fight with good men.”

Under his breath, Jaime Lannister cursed. He walked out of the room and called for his horse.

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think.

**Part 9**

 

_There was ice as far as she could see._

 

_And the ice was enthralling._

 

_Before her the world was dead, and stark, and empty. And it was beautiful._

 

_Atop that wall, she was home. The solid ground beneath her feet cold as flesh, white as her pale skin. The dead world, his gift and soul. When his black-gloved hand rested on her shoulder, he was heat and life, so foreign and inviting. She laid her cheek on the hand that touched her, his life seeping into her as her death into him._

 

_The other of his hand cupped under the swell of her belly, distended and heavy, a miracle when life and death mingled and blossomed. He had given her his soul with his seed,_

 

_Her frozen lips pressed onto his glove, and with that black hand he turned her back to the winterscape and lifted her face to his._

 

_Gray eyes, like the first man that dared to raise the wall that split the world beyond and his. Gray eyes like those of the promised son. Gray eyes shuttered when he placed his forehead on hers, and only with him could she allow her own eyes to slide shut._

 

_Everything she wanted. Everything she deserved. He swore this to her many times, and he swore it once again as he drew her through the path through the tunnels, through the bridges, inside through the ice wall and into the castle he claimed was theirs. The fort in the night, for the king and his queen._

 

_The night is ours to rule, he promised her, wordless but clear. Clear as the bright blue that gazed back at her when she caught her reflection in the ice._

 

_And then the tower under her feet rumbled. The walls collapsed around her. She spun to find the flaming arrows drop into the hardwood, pierce and spread the flames. Slowly, but so many arrows burned and hissed. The fort creaked below her until it broke. With a start, she threw pale arms around his neck._

 

_When the frozen stone collapsed beneath her even his grip could not hold her. Around him gray-eyed men grasped him by the black wool and vest and pulled him away, and he struggled to no avail, screaming a name she could not even remember. The rubble tumbled after her as she fell, blue eyes in open shock, translucent hand reaching up as if by miracle he would catch her._

 

_And then the gray eyed men had grasped his head and pulled him back, and next she knew while falling his scream tore life a wolf howling in the night. The black leather vest tore as the dark steel dagger was plunged into his back, piercing his heart._

 

_As if the dead could die again she hit the packed ice on the ground with the crunch of twisted bone.   Then at once she stood, looking down at the mangled body, neck twisted in such a way there was no doubt if she lived, blood blooming on the snow beneath her broken thighs._

 

_And then the black clad body of the man fell onto the snow, the dark blade glinted between the hilt and his vest._

 

_Daenerys opened her palm and saw the snow floating onto her palm. She looked up at the sky, and instead of the open night and twinkling stars she found the remains of the castle deteriorating above her, timber and wrought iron dropping at peak speed._

 

_Under her feet a giant bone white weirwood sprouted and twisted from the white ground and lifted her closer and closer to the collapse._

 

_She screamed._

 

Daenerys sat up on the bed, panting as she caught her breath from the restless sleep. She clutched at the fur underneath her fingers, the motion a source of comfort. She stumbled to the windows and threw them open, eager for the cool air to shock her awake, to force the images of her dream to the back of her head.

 

The blast of icy wind woke her as she had hoped. Daenerys sucked in her breath at the blast of air. She looked into the distance, then narrowed her eyes at the sight.

 

All around her, as far as the eye could see, were wights. The army of the dead was upon them, surrounding them.

 

Winter had come.

 

Her child was a touchstone now, she thought briefly as she touched her belly briefly before taking a deep calming breath. Daenerys reached for the light gray dress that Missandei had laid out for her. She took the white fur cloak and wrapped it snugly around her. And then slowly, intentionally, she took her full leather gloves and slid them on. With a familiar knock, Daenerys called her permission and Missandei entered. The look on her handmaiden’s face assured Daenerys that she knew what was out there. Silently, Missandei knelt before Daenerys and helped the queen lace her boots tight.

 

“Missandei,” Daenerys said softly. The handmaiden looked up at the queen. “The time has come.” 

 

The young woman’s eyes brimmed, but she nodded. “Come with me, your grace.” 

 

Daenerys merely smiled, then shook her head. “What a pleasure it has been, my friend.” She reached down with her hands.

 

Missandei took the queen’s hands and rose. She gripped them, then bent low to kiss them. Quietly, holding herself proud and in control, Missandei took the two scrolls that lay atop the table. Without looking back at Daenerys, the handmaiden slid out of the room.

 

After Missandei had left, Daenerys stood still, alone in the room. She took several long and deep breaths. The queen took a long look at the small chambers, so unimpressive and unadorned. With a faint touch she ran her fingers over the coarse wood and warm stone walls. A heavy sign accompanied the way she sank into the fur of the bed once again.

 

For a moment, this brief moment, Daenerys’s shoulders fell. She covered her face with her hands, then allowed herself to sob. And then she straightened her back and squared her shoulder, raising her chin in pride and strength.

 

Finally, when she pulled open the door, Daenerys found Lord Tyrion waiting patiently for her. With a small, sad, lopsided smile, the hand of the queen offered his arm up. Daenerys reached down and held on to it, as if he were a gallant escort to a feast. “It is not every day that an imp walks beside the queen on the most fateful days of her life,” he said in his deep drawl. “And I have done it twice now, just in Winterfell.”

 

The light statement reminded her of her wedding, and how she ached for Jon Snow. The grandest houses truly had it right, marrying for alliances and leaving no room for love. Love made queens weak. It made kings doubt their own will and tempted them to cast their honor aside.

 

But, gods, if she fell today she would not trade those precious hours they were together—when she was his wife and he her husband.

 

Yet the fierceness of the dragon in her blood would not let her surrender. The wolf in her womb would give her courage.

 

Daenerys emerged from the great keep to find her men already armed and ready for the siege. Jon’s sisters and brother joined them in the bailey. She took one long look at them. Despite the experience in their eyes Daenerys recognized the trust that Jon had placed upon her, because in front of a war as great as this, that felled men more battle-weary and jaded than they, these three were still children. They were the last children that remained of the family that Jon had left to take the black.

 

Beside Lady Sansa stood a portly young man whom she swore she had met before, however briefly. The man held before him a large weapon, a greatsword of some kind she supposed, seeing how extraordinarily long it was.

 

Daenerys nodded towards the weapon. “Do I hope that you will wield it for me?”

 

The man nodded. “Samwell Tarly,” he stammered. “We met, your grace, but I am easy to forget.” He glanced nervously at Bran.

 

“Tarly,” Daenerys repeated. And then her face fell. “Samwell, your family bravely fought in battle. This is war, and I—“

 

Before she could continue Samwell shrugged, hanging his head. “They probably deserved it,” he injected.

 

She took the words to mean that the young man did not wish to pursue. “Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys said aloud, “place the men.”

 

The hand looked up in surprise. “You would have me command the army?”

 

“Command what little army we have,” Daenerys pointed out. 

 

“Can I take Jaime’s positions?” 

 

Daenerys acquiesced. “He does have more experience in battle than all of us combined,” she pointed out, gesturing towards herself and Tyrion, and Jon’s younger siblings.

 

One day.

 

Two.

 

Daenerys stood at the ramparts, flanked with the Winterfell men and the Unsullied. Their stance was set, their weapons at the ready. Still, not one of the wights moved. In the long day, Daenerys knew that there would be no attack coming.

 

The Night King was toying with them, like a cat circling its prey. The army of the dead surrounded Winterfell as far as she could see. She prayed Missandei had been able to ride out with Lord Varys before the entire path was blocked. She wished Missandei would make her way out and live her days in Naath in prosperity. She had served enough for a lifetime. The dead did not sleep, did not eat. But her men were alive, and needed both.

 

She had asked men to eat and sleep in turns, but none left the line. A day and a half has passed, and still none took a step out of formation.

 

She commanded the men to rest and eat, else they would leave her service. Very quickly the first group broke formation. Once they returned another, then another.

 

The last group had stopped for sleep when suddenly the path in the snow was cut by a lone horseman, calling out loudly. Lord Tyrion peered above the embrasure, and when he recognized the rider shouted a command to draw up the gate.

 

The man rode through the gate and jumped off his horse. The moment his feet touched the ground, Ser Jaime Lannister bent and rested his hands on his knees, then sucked in deeply to catch his breath. 

 

“Just when I thought you abandoned us, Ser Jaime,” Daenerys said from the steps above them.

 

“I saw the bloodriders lined up right outside the wall.”

 

“Sage advise is sage advise, whomever it’s from.” And then she nodded towards his light armor—where once it was shiny the armor was now dented and scratched. “Glad to see you alive.”

 

“Spent the past few days in the open, scouting the terrain, making sure we know how to hold the keep and more importantly,” Ser Jamie told them, “find the escape if we need it.” Her hand looked to Ser Jaime with pride and a smile.

 

“What do you mean?” Arya interjected. Her sister and brother had retired for the night, so late it was when the last Unsullied broke from their places for their rest. But Arya remained, anxious now but swearing her blade would remain close by. “We are surrounded. Brilliant idea to hold the keep against the enemy that arrives with more than double our men.”

 

Jamie gestured to the west. “Your keep is east to the Wolfswood,” the knight told the young woman. “The forest is vast, and you can lose yourself in it until your host arrives. Towards that slope there the incline is too steep and just there, a few paces, there are no enemies.”

 

Arya stared at Ser Jamie intently, reading the man’s face. When Daenerys did, one thing was clear. Jaime Lannister would be hard pressed to lie. His expression was too open, his face too transparent. Anyone who would be fooled if he tried deserved the deception.

 

“I believe you, Ser Jaime.” The knight threw a look of surprise at her. “If we need to, we will escape to the forest,” Daenerys continued. “Now we hold Winterfell, as agreed.”

 

From above, in a distance, Daenerys heard a thunderous roar of a dragon. Her breath caught in her throat. “Jon,” she whispered. And then she picked up skirts. Gone was the regal calm she maintained before the Lannisters. Daenerys ran the steep icy steps to climb to the ramparts. She stumbled on a step so frozen over by the cold and fell to her knees. Daenerys could not allow herself to falter, and hastily picked herself up and crossed the steps until she stood on the wall.

 

It was her Drogon, alone.

 

Perhaps it was the sight of his mother surrounded, but the dragon let out a screeching wail that would strike fear in men. Not in wights. Her army watched in awe as the large dragon pulled itself taut like a string.

 

When she realized what Drogon meant to do, Daenerys clutched the icy wall and shouted, “Drogon, daor!”

 

In the distance and the whipping ice, Daenerys’s heart sank with the knowledge that Drogon could not hear her.

 

And then her Drogon breathed a long stream of dragonfire, razing the wights along his path. The dragon bore right and flapped his giant wings, circling to the other side and burning more of her enemies. Even so the thick army merely filled the gaps created, and beyond the horizon Daenerys could see more of them. 

 

She had not realized that Jaime Lannister had followed her up. “They are not afraid,” Ser Jaime whispered in realization as he saw the dead.

 

“What can the dead be afraid of?” Daenerys returned.

 

“Everyone has something to fear,” he told her. Idly she remember what Jon had told her about fear. 

 

She turned to study the army once again, and at that time spied the glint of the icy spear that one raced. “Drogon!” she called out again, louder still. 

 

Her dragon veered west and the weapon zipped under his wing. Drogon soared up and disappeared into the icy skies. Daenerys waited patiently, and he reappeared flapping mighty wings above her, roaring until the ancient castle walls shuddered, behind her now, another part of her fight. 

 

And it was so that Daenerys had broken the stalemate. The dead took their first steps forward, crushing underneath them those that Drogon had burned before them. Daenerys met the sharp blue eyes in the distance.

 

Behind the Night King the ice exploded, sending sheer glass around him, emphasizing his control over the winter. As Daenerys watched him from afar, large dragon wings sprouted from his back, torn and thin. Her eyes widened at the sight of a dragon wight, with features so familiar it rent her heart to see him.

 

Her son.

 

“Viserion,” she whispered in regret. From behind her Drogon wailed in protest.

 

It was Jaime who spoke beside her with a sigh. “Set your eyes on the goal,” Jaime said. “I have lost three children. Lose yourself in grief after the war is won,” was his advise. “For now you are alive, so live.”

 

Rarely would she heed an advise, except even as he told her of moving forward she could hear his voice throb with his loss. Daenerys turned to the knight and regarded him carefully, searching his face. “Live. And fight,” she added.

 

The dragon who used to be her Viserion drew up, and gave a keening cry she could not recognize. Its wings carried it forward, with a speed far superior than its own when it was alive. Daenerys froze still on the rampart as the dragon sped headfirst towards her. And then she fell to the ground when Ser Jaime pushed her out of the way. A mighty squeal above her made her push away Ser Jaime, and she watched as Drogon drove the dragon wight from her, causing it to fall down onto the snow.

 

Daenerys gathered herself up with a hand from Ser Jaime.

 

With a hiss the dragon wight ambled forward and lunged at Drogon, who was much larger than it. Ser Jaime gave a warning cry, and Daenerys saw the wights begin their sprint towards the castle. The flaming arrows flew at an angle and not an arc, the pointed fire burying deep into the wights. The noise they made as they burst and shriveled ungodly. 

 

The Northmen’s bows made a dent in the lines, and the Dothraki pealed out their screams as they went berserker over the army of the dead, slashing and cutting their way through the wights. Instead of the chaos that ensued when armies of men faced the Dothraki, the dead were relentless on their path to Winterfell. Whichever wight that fell was left behind, the dead climbing over the fallen uninterrupted in their pursuit.

 

The Unsullied began to defend the castle walls, and piece by piece the wights fell, but still they climbed, hissing and scratching, pulling down Winterfell’s defense.

 

Too many men, Daenerys realized. For the first time amidst the battle fray she could see them fall for her.

 

And then Ser Jaime drew out his sword and slashed in front of her. Daenerys saw the wight cut down, realized that Ser Jaime had saved her life. Before she could say a word, Jaime nodded in silent communication, then placed his gloved hand on her back. 

 

“Forgive me, your grace,” he told her as he pushed her along the ramparts, on the way to the icy steps as they rushed. “I need my left to wield the sword.” He could not lead her, could not hold her with his stump and metal hand. So Daenerys ran, uncomplaining when the unyielding hand steered her away so he could step forward and clear her path.

 

“There is too many of them!” Lord Tyrion called from down below.

 

“Is there, brother?” Ser Jaime mocked when they stepped onto the bailey, even in the midst of fighting still fond enough of his brother to taunt him. “I hadn’t noticed,” Jaime gritted through his teeth and he moved to shield the queen from a grasping wight.

 

Daenerys turned, and realized that the wights climbing through the walls now converged around her. Lord Tyrion noticed at the same time, and his shocked eyes flew to her. Jamie growled, and held his sword high in front of him.

 

“Get her away from here!” he cried upon realizing the path the wights took. The heavy portcullis gate burst open by force, and Daenerys gasped to see the decaying giant that rammed through. 

 

“I know a way out!” Arya burst. 

 

Lord Tyrion grabbed the queen’s hand and Daenerys started to run after Arya. The younger Stark woman met her siblings. Sansa ran as she pushed her brother’s chair. They entered through a corridor, past the great keep. Daenerys stopped and turned, reached a hand out for Lord Tyrion. 

 

“Let’s go!” Lord Tyrion called to his brother.

 

Ser Jaime glared at him. “My hand is full!” Jaime returned.

 

“We are overwhelmed,” Tyrion cried back. “Come, Jaime!”

 

Ser Jaime cut down three wights before him, and then what came next was more fearsome to him. Daenerys saw the white walker pull out a sword of ice. When she gasped, the walker turned to see her. Daenerys took a step backwards as the walker made his way towards Lord Tyrion, and eventually towards her.

 

Ser Jaime rushed after the white walker, engaging the ice sword with his. The walker bore down hard, and Jaime blocked the strength with his weaker grip. “Gods sake, little brother, run!”

 

The shock of the words shook Tyrion, but rather than run he took a step towards Jaime. Daenerys saw the look of helplessness that Jaime threw at her. She took the hand of Lord Tyrion and pulled him with her as she followed the Stark siblings.

 

They took the twisted turns of the old castle, passing from one keep to the other, bypassing the open gardens and the godswood outside. Their pace slowed to a brisk walk and Arya fell into step beside her. They were far from the melee, but each breath they drew came out cold as ice. Sansa held up a hand, and then she placed her palm on the wall of the keep.

 

With a worried look, Lady Sansa told her sister, “The walls are cold.”

 

She remembered Missandei’s story, that the Northmen warmed Winterfell with spring water heated by a dragon underneath the castle. “He’s close,” Arya said.

 

Once again, they picked up their steps until they emerged. Out there Daenerys saw a trodden graveyard, forgotten names etched into headstones adorned by lichen. The cold in the air seeped into her body. She swore there were ghosts around her, watching her, recognizing this place was not hers and never will be. Daenerys followed the Stark siblings until they stopped before a large ironwood door, hard and black it was almost metal. 

 

Bran Stark looked behind them, towards the keeps that they had passed, the corridors they walked through. Daenerys saw the snow grow thicker, fall harder, as if winter followed their steps.

 

Sansa and Arya pushed open the ironwood door, and Daenerys could see only blackness and stone steps. The three women stepped inside. Arya took a torch from the corner of the walkway and lit it easily. She handed the torch to Sansa and reached for another.

 

“You have to leave me here,” he told his siblings. 

 

Sansa objected immediately. They had only just been reunited, Daenerys knew. “No, Bran. We go together.”

 

And then the boy pulled down the sleeve of his clothes and showed the mark on him. “I am touched by the Night King. He is capable of seeing everything I do. If I am with you, he will find you,” Bran warned.

 

“Go, your grace,” Lord Tyrion told her. “I will see to the boy.”

 

“You swore your life to me,” Daenerys reminded her hand tearfully. “You cannot get out of your vow by choosing to die.”

 

“You can see it that way, or choose to see it another,” Lord Tyrion reasoned. “The part I play in this great war is to serve you. What better way to serve you than to see to the boy. You are a Stark now.”

 

And then Lord Tyrion pulled the ironwood door and sealed it shut. 

 

“Bran!” Sansa screamed, dropping the torch on the stone step as she pounded on the ironwood.

 

Arya rushed to her side and helped pull open the door, but it would not budge. “They sealed it.” Arya cursed. “And you know how the crypts are built, Sansa. It was built to keep the ghosts within.”

 

Daenerys picked up the fallen torch and thrust it outward, bathing light onto the stone steps. She walked down the narrow, winding steps. Behind her, the Stark sisters followed, one by one lighting their own torches with hers.

 

They reached the first level down in the crypts. “You’re a Stark now,” Arya repeated the words she heard from Tyrion. “Meet the Kings of Winter.” The dancing flames of the torches they held made the stone likenesses seem to move as they walked down the corridor. Iron swords glinted before each, and the large carved direwolves at their feet growled silently as the flames bared their teeth from the shadows.

 

Unlike many of the graves she had seen before, where the living ensured the dead was rested and memorialized, the Starks hid their kings and tasked them with an eternity on guard. 

 

Like they were guarding something underneath, or guarding the living from the monsters within, swords ready to ensure the wall between the world of the living and the dead would not be breached.

 

And then they heard the noise above them as it burst. Daenerys saw splinters of the ironwood door clatter down the stone steps. The chill fell over them, and she swore she heard someone wake underneath her feet. Bran Stark hung from the Night King’s grip on his collar.

 

“Bran!” Arya cried, moving to rush forward, but Arya held her back.

 

Bran fell to the stone floor as the Night King released him.

 

From across the corridor their eyes met. Purple and blue. They did not belong here, both of them. She belonged to the old world across the Narrow Sea, and he to the frozen lands beyond the wall.

 

Yet here they stood.

 

The Night King took a step forward, hesitated, and stepped backwards. He looked at the statues of the kings immortalized. The Stark blood magic he could not overwhelm. He looked down at the boy at his feet, then picked him up and tossed him before the Kings of Winter. Bran cried out at the pain that burned the mark on his arm.

 

Bran looked up at them as he clutched his arm. “Run!” he screamed.

 

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

Part 10

Soon this thick cold fog around them would clear, Jon hoped. The journey over land was miserable enough as the men cross the road damp and frozen, knowing the pace they took would never be fast enough to reach Winterfell before the dead. And still bone-weary and chilled the host was tireless and still pushed forward.

Above them Rhaegal soared, fighting against the biting wind and ice.

In the distance, Jon saw the lone figure on the side of the road, curled inside a thick cloak that would barely help with warmth. He called to the man, jerking slightly at the reins of his mount to slow. When the man had no response he dismounted. Had the unfortunate fellow met his end on the side of the road then his body at least needed to be burned, lest walkers find him.

As he drew closer Jon shielded his eyes, squinting against the cold air. He recognized the form, at least, and the cloak was far too common to made a judgment. 

“Sam?” he prompted. When there was no response, Jon shook the body hard. At his touch the man scrambled to his feet. “Sam.”

“Jon!” replied his friend. And Jon was glad against this bitter winter there was a friendly face. “I just came looking for you,” Sam told him in a rush. His teeth chattered from the cold.

Ser Davos tossed a thick wool horse blanket towards the new arrival, and Samwell caught it with his hands. Unfortunately, this caused his tightly wrapped package to fall to the ground. Samwell tucked the horse blanket under his arm and reached for bundle on the ground.

“Winterfell,” Jon said. “I left you in Winterfell, so you can receive my ravens.” He had taken the maester with him, so he could dispatch messages from the battlefield. “What are you doing here?”

Samwell took a few deep breaths, as if to calm himself. “I escaped when the wights broke through the gates and started pouring in,” was his shamed admission. “They need you. There’s too many of them.”

Jon’s hands balled into fists. Daenerys had brave men around her, elite bowmen trained by Ned Stark and strong combatants from Essos. “Where’s my family?” 

“Your siblings were there, inside the keep,” he answered. “I saw them with Daenerys Targaryen. Your family will be safe as long as they’re with Queen Daenerys.” Samwell’s voice was timid, uncertain. “Her army will protect her. The last thing I saw was Ser Jaime fighting the wights that tried to get to her.”

Jon cursed under his breath, then pulled himself up on his mount again. He nudged the side of his horse and gave a form pull of the reins, his horse breaking into a gallop on the icy road. Behind him, he heard Samwell clamber up on his now rested horse.

Dusk fell, and as the night turned darker and they lost sight of the road, still Jon punished the horse below him. But the beast had its limits and despite Jon pushing for more, the horse slowed into a trot and finally listlessly walked about. Jon led the horse to the side of the road, looked up to call for Rhaegal who did not come. From the distance, Jon could see that the dragon took advantage of the brief pause in the snow and flew in the distance. His breath came deep and fast as he struggled to contain himself. Ser Davos would arrive with a part of the host in time, and Jon could take the freshest horse they had. Fuck their reservations in charging as a lone rider. Fuck the need to lead the host, and fuck thinking wisely.

Winterfell was crawling with wights and he was acting rationally. Strategy could fly in the fucking winds. His wife was in Winterfell… his siblings… his child.

His face was chapped and frozen now as he waited in the night. Finally he saw the small group of men coming, and he called Ser Davos for another mount. There was no mount for him, no beast that had taken rest in the punishing hours on the road.

Jon stalked towards Ser Davos and pulled another thick blanket from one of the animals, then pulled it over his fur cloak, tightly around himself. Jon reached for a flask and gulped a healthy measure of the brew. His jaw set, he turned his back on the men and walked.

Samwell followed closely behind him. “Jon, Ser Davos is right. Wait a while and soon you can take another horse.”

Jon did not respond. Instead he hiked down the Kingsroad on his way to Winterfell. “I tried to fight, Jon. Really I did.”

“No matter, Sam,” Jon gritted out. “Stay with the men and you have nothing to be afraid of.”

Samwell panted as he kept pace with Jon. He grabbed Jon’s arm, and then Jon stopped and glared at him. “I didn’t want to run, but my father was right. I am a coward.” Samwell raised the tightly wrapped bundle and quickly undid the rope, then bared the beautiful weapon. The hilt was worked into the huntsman sigil of House Tarly, crafted like a bow and arrow. On either sides of the hunters in the crossguard were animals representing the other houses, such as a lion and a stag. Arrogantly enough upon the creation of the weapon, one of the preys appeared to be the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. He unsheathed the weapon, then thrust the five hundred year old greatsword towards Jon as an offering. “I don’t deserve Heartsbane. It’s useless on me. You should have it for the war. It’s Valyrian steel.”

Jon’s gloved hands touched the precious blade. Headfirst into the thick of the Night King’s army, any Valyrian blade could save lives. Next to Ice, this was the largest and most elegant Valyrian weapon he had seen.

Jon Snow pushed on the blade firmly and refused it. “I’ve taken one family sword from the heir of a great family,” he told Samwell, touching Longclaw at his side always. “A bastard would need only one. Keep it. Pass it on to little Sam.”

When he turned to look back at Ser Davos and his party, Jon suddenly found himself out of the open road and into a damp, dark room. His eyes adjusted to his environment, and slowly recognized the flickering light that bounced off the walls. He looked down at his boots and found paws angled on the stone floor. Beyond great stone figures he saw them, heard his brother yell.

And then the Night King’s arm shot out, fingers tangled into Daenerys hair. She cried out at the sharp pain as she stumbled backwards. Jon felt the deep growl in his throat and he lowered himself on the cold stone. And then he bared his teeth and leapt over the stone status, lunging forward in attack.

~o~o~

Daenerys could feel the eyes of the Kings of Winter, watching, guarding. 

“Run!” Bran cried out to them. 

Beside her, Arya grasped her hand and turned to bolt. Daenerys screamed in pain when the Night King’s long reach twisted and tore at her hair, holding her back and towards him. And then the large shadow loomed from behind the statues. Next she found herself grappled to the floor, her shoulder screaming when the pain burst where she hot the stone. Daenerys pressed her lips together to muffle her cry and she gripped her arm and rolled onto her back.

She turned her head, and that is when she saw the glowing red eyes stark against the bright white fur. She choked back her tears, but recoiled when the giant direwolf sniffed her neck. Daenerys froze in place. “Ghost!” Arya whispered. Jon’s direwolf, she realized, remembering the stories Jon shared of Winterfell. She reached forward and buried her fingers into the white fur. The giant animal turned and growled at the intruder. With the animal’s back to her, Daenerys squirmed backwards, deeper into the crypts. 

When she was far enough it was Sansa that helped her up to her feet. And then the elder Stark girl turned to her sister with Tully blue eyes. Sansa cupped Arya’s cheeks in her hands. “Listen,” she said, with a strength in her voice that Daenerys rarely heard, “you need to go. You know the crypts best. I’m going back for Bran.”

“No,” Arya protested. “We go together. That’s what you said. We stay together to survive.”

Daenerys looked back towards the white direwolf, still growling, pacing back and forth the narrow corridor. To her amazement the Night King merely stared back at the wolf, refusing to take a step forward. When the direwolf moved forward, the Night King stepped backwards away from Bran and towards the steps.

Sansa smiled, and placed a kiss on her sister’s forehead. “That’s why I need to get Bran.” She nodded towards Daenerys. “There will be no lone wolves tonight,” Sansa declared. “The queen is Jon’s wife now, and if there is anyone that Jon trusts to protect his child, it’s you.” Arya’s eyes flooded. “And you know it.” 

The words lit a fire in the dragon that she was, but this was not the time to stand tall and insist that it was only in Daenerys she had faith in. She was a part of the pack now, and with her army returning the Starks would need her protection as much as she needed Arya to guide her through the crypts.

And then Sansa dried up her sister’s tears with her gloves. “Maybe there’s use for all those days you were lost exploring the crypts.”

Arya nodded. With one last look at Sansa who had edged closer to Bran now, Daenerys and Arya run deeper into the dark crypt. They reached another set of steps, taking the flight down, then another and another. The crypts were ancient, Arya had told her, far larger than the castle above it. Even Old Nan, who had lived the longest of all the people in Winterfell, could not tell how truly deep and vast the crypts were, nor could she say what else was underneath.

Finally, there were no more flights. Faintly, above them, they could hear the noises until they too were silenced. In the deepest recesses of the crypts, the torches dimmed for lack of air. Down there below, the air was as cold as it had been beyond the wall. Impossible, Daenerys thought, because snow blanketed the world out there but here at least enclosed and deep in the earth, close the the natural hot springs, it should have been warmer still. But the dead was cold and cold it was below.

Every breath was labor now, so cold and dead it was. She heard a whisper, faint, like a spirit. Daenerys turned and found only emptiness around her. She lifted the torch and pressed forward but save for statues so old they crumbled and crawled with lichen, there was nothing. Arya’s hand closed over hers.

Daenerys swallowed. A cold finger crawled down her spine. In the still air the flame of her torch danced happily, as if in welcome celebration.

She wondered if Arya could feel that presence, hear the whisper in the deep stillness.

Daenerys wondered if it was just a touch of madness.

Finally, they reached a dead end. Arya reached forward with her torch and saw the collapsed rocks blocking the tunnel. On the wall, there was a large carving. Daenerys peered at it, but it was too large to see properly. The younger woman searched for any opening until finally, Daenerys spied a corner where they could step through.

“I will go,” Arya offered, “to make sure this is the path.”

“Have you been here before?”

Arya shook her head. “I had never explored farther than a few hundred years. The crypt has been here since Bran the Builder.”

No one knew exactly when. It was legend more than history. Nothing before Aegon conquered Westeros had been written down. There was no history before the Targaryens. 

Arya crawled into the opening, and Daenerys soon followed. When Arya objected, Daenerys told her, “There are no lone wolves tonight. I need a savior only as much as you do. You are not here to protect me.”

Arya was certain they had reached the very end of it when they happened upon an open vault. Unused, obviously, since there was no statue or marker there. The flame of Arya’s torch flickered and died. Deep in the darkness there was only one flame now. Daenerys knew they needed rest. Perhaps in the morning by some miracle some light would peer through. While it was improbable Daenerys hoped at least with some rest they would have enough will tomorrow to forge forward and find the steps that would lead them up, away from the siege. If not, at least they could make their way back.

Soon Jon would return, and he would have the most powerful army behind him. Her army. And they would crush the Night King’s army and retake Winterfell.

Daenerys and Arya agreed to rest a few moments on the stone floor of the open vault. As Daenerys spread the white fur on the ground, Arya told her, “He will be home tomorrow. I know.”

“How do you know?” Daenerys breathed, even if in her heart of hearts, she knew it too.

“Because it’s Jon,” came the lighthearted response. Arya’s chuckle came unexpectedly to Daenerys. “One day, when we are out of here, I want to know how the mother of dragons came to be married to the bastard of Winterfell.”

One day when there was time.

One day when the war is won.

She and Jon loved to promise a day that seemed to never come.

“One day,” Daenerys repeated. “What if I tell you now?” She closed her eyes and called his face to mind. Arya’s stubborn brother, filled with so much pride he could not bend the knee, and as much honor that he did. She could not remember when it was she loved him, but soon enough she did, and her world was forever changed. Daenerys could not know how much of it she told Arya that night, and when it was she finally allowed sleep to claim her from exhaustion.

It could have been morning when finally she woke, or it could have been midnight then. There was no way to tell in the pitch blackness around them. The torch flame had faded out. She called Arya’s name, but the young woman did not wake. Daenerys had seen how Arya lit the flame several times. 

She felt beside her for the torch, then from the handle grasped the rough metal used to ignite it. Daenerys sat up blearily and tried it once, then twice. And then the small flame jumped and woke, slowly growing in the darkness.

And then light climbed the walls of the open vault. Daenerys felt it before she saw it. There in the corner, embraced by the dark shadows. 

“Arya,” she called again, but it was as if she was voiceless. 

Daenerys’s throat closed. Her sight panned the empty walls, and then the flame danced and shivered until she could see into the shadows. Then, slowly, Daenerys drank in the sight of the lone woman there—moon white translucent skin in the thin white shift she wore in tatters and a shock of silver hair covering her face. And then Daenerys saw the chains, dark and rippled, easy enough to recognize Valyrian steel, but not to know why such precious metal would be used to hold a perfect corpse.

She stood and stepped forward, towards the figure. 

But they were eight thousand years down in the crypts, she realized, in a vault cut off from the rest by the aging, crumbling, wall. 

Eight thousand years, and she was flesh and skin. 

Flawless.

And then Daenerys saw herself staring back at bright blue eyes against a face she had dreamed before. It was the first time she had ever seen one so beautiful.

And then the corpse lunged.

~o~o~

Even from afar, Jon could see the gray smoke curling against the white sky. He took a trembling breath. Rhaegal did not come at his command the last few days Jon tried to call for him, but right then even without his call the dragon had allowed him on his back and gave him a view of the destruction of his home from above. Jon saw the scattered bodies within and outside the castle walls. The great keep, used by the family to live their lives the past hundred years lay smoldering, like dying embers in the snow.

His heart tightened at the sight, and he would not be surprised to learn that near two thousand of the men had died.

Nowhere in sight was the army of the dead. Jon urged the dragon to fly in a wide circle, and then Jon saw where the wights had gathered. They needed to keep watch. Any time that army would come, close enough to threaten Winterfell again.

Drogon huffed on the snow in the keep, nursing a wounded limb. The absence of Daenerys was stark in that regard. Where ordinarily she would soothe her hurt child, now she was nowhere to be seen. Rhaegal allowed him off at the castle gates. The snow falling was softer now, the wind gentler than biting. As if he was not surrounded by death.

The last he saw, in the unconscious, uncontrolled way he skinchanged, Daenerys was alive. For that small measure of relief, Jon was grateful for the gift.

Like an offering of flowers, snow slowly blanketed the fallen men. When the host arrived and the army gathered, the arduous task began of gathering the dead, brothers all. Men in their Stark plates and Targaryen colors bled together on Winterfell soil, and were placed in rows upon rows together. There were no houses to separate the ones who died defending Winterfell. The courtyard that saw their last proud stand saw their last formation.

“We have to burn them,” Jon said aloud. Not one man that fell there deserved the indignity of rising as a wight.

Outside, the Dothraki who returned from Karhold had begun to create the pyres for the fallen and their horses. One of Daenerys’s kos walked over to Jon. “Khaleesi,” was the only word he said, perhaps because he knew Jon’s inability to understand them.

Daenerys would want, as difficult as it would be, to see her men off to join whichever gods they worshipped.

As much as he owed it to these men, he realized he could not wait. He reached for the ko to offer his apologies, but without Ser Jorah or Daenerys the words would be meaningless. He nodded to one of the horselords who lit the Dothraki pyre. In the months he had spent with Daenerys, he may not have learned the language but he had enough respect to learn their beliefs. He said aloud, “May your ashes rise to the stars. May you join the khalasar of the Great Stallion. May your spirit ride with your ancestors in the Night Lands.”

Inside the walls, Northmen and Unsullied bodies were placed a series of pyres, hastily made. They fought against time, needed to ensure that the bodies were burned before the Night King would have the chance to raise them. 

There was a long groan, and a pile of bodies moved. Jon raised Longclaw, prepared to cut down if the bodies rise. Instead it was Jaime Lannister underneath, pushing at the bodies to gasp for breath. Jon sheathed his sword.

“My brother,” Jaime gasped. Ser Jaime had fought the wights that had tried to reach Daenerys, Samwell told him. Jon reached down a hand to help the knight to his feet. “Tyrion fled with the Starks.” Ser Jaime looked towards the great keep horrified at the sight. “In there.”

He contained his impulse to search for her now, else more death would follow using the faces of their own dead. Jon stood and listened as the captain of the Stark bowmen and Grey Worm bid farewell. 

It was the first time that Jon saw so many men fallen, so many bodies burned. He stood quietly, respectfully. 

Jon called for the kos of Daenerys’s khalasar and Grey Worm of the Unsullied. The men’s faces were blank.When they stood before him, he said, “We have lost many men today, and we thank them for their sacrifice. But the war is not won. I need—“

“Lord Snow,” Grey Worm said, his words careful, intentional, “the Unsullied marched to Karhold with you, on a mission from our queen. The mission is done. The Unsullied take command only from Daenerys Stormborn.”

One of the kos took a chance to speak, his Dothraki thick, passionate. Grey Worm looked forward as the ko spoke. “Fighting along beside him,” Grey Worm said to Jon, “I understand.” In broken translation, Grey Worm said, “They fight for you. They joined you. And they lost their brothers and the khaleesi. You are not the khal.”

And it was true. If he followed a leader who had also had not been wise enough to anticipate this great loss, he would have walked away. Jon turned around and stalked back towards the first keep. “We need Lord Tyrion. Now.” Ser Jaime followed close behind. Having seen Daenerys and his siblings in the crypts, Jon knew the path that they had taken. The went past the godswood, keeping close to the great keep that had burned. When they were close to the lichyard, Jon said to Ser Jaime, “Keep your eyes open, Ser Jaime.”

True enough, they saw the foot peering out from behind a boulder. The Night King had been intent, he knew it. Tyrion was a bit player, to him not worth the time that would be lost if he had to be killed. Jaime cried out his brother’s name and knelt before Tyrion’s body.

Jon stopped before them. “Is he alive?” 

Jaime placed a hand on Tyrion’s neck, then released a breath of relief. “He’s alive.” He shook his brother awake.

While Jaime helped Tyrion to regain consciousness, Jon’s eyes dotted to the ironwood entrance of the crypts. The shattered door, as well as Lord Tyrion appearing to have been tossed aside, spoke volumes to how the Night King had found them. The last he had seen was that the Night King had been pushed back towards the steps, unable without Bran, to get past the iron swords and guardposts of the Stark kings.

Ghost bounded from the stone steps.

“Good. You did well,” he told his direwolf, certain that the Night King had left the crypts at least. From behind Ghost, Sansa supported Bran up the steps, her face strained with exertion at the weight of her brother. Jon clasped Sansa’s nape and kissed her forehead, then embraced Bran. And then he asked Sansa, “Where are they?”

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: What happens when you are on 16 hours worth of flights? Flying over Dubai a few minutes ago, I thought to myself that this gem, which looks like so much gold and diamonds from above--the lights glow against the desert sand-- is what a futuristic Dothraki Sea would look like.

 

**Part 11**

 

“Bran,” he had pleaded with his brother multiple times in the last day. Daenerys and Arya had been lost in the crypts for two days now and the endless hours he had spent scouring the crypts yielded no results. He had gone to the coldest, deepest levels he could go, down to the centuries of kings even Old Nan never found time to tell tales of. But the crypts of Winterfell had always been a series of labyrinthine mazes that would take weeks to explore. In the thousands of years since it was built none of the Starks had been able to map the mysteries laid out right under their feet. “Bran, I need your help.”

 

Yet every time that Bran looked into the heart tree and searched, all he could find was darkness.

 

And when Bran returned to them, his brother assured him, “They will come out, Jon. Daenerys Targaryen has no place in our crypts.”

 

Just as there was none laid out for him.

 

Every Stark, every one of Ned Stark’s blood, had been laid to rest in the Winterfell crypts and would be laid to rest there when they die, to guard the ghosts, to make the monsters remain inside. Every last one of them. Except him.

 

He was not a Stark after all.

 

Jon could not feel the exhaustion, even if there had been no rest since Karhold. While in the day he joined in the underground search, at night he found himself changing skin—this overwhelming, frightening, exhilarating thing that he had only discovered with his brother Robb—deep in the mind of his direwolf Ghost as he did before, this time running down the corridors under the watchful eyes of the kings that had passed, searching.

 

The shattered ironwood that had been the door was removed now. In its place the remaining craftsmen wrought a heavier door to seal the crypts. Now the crypt yawned open, inviting Jon again to explore, to take back what was his. 

 

Back with the living an old abandoned keep hummed as the smallfolk worked tirelessly to turn it habitable, living spaces for the family in the wake of the fire that razed the great keep. The smallfolk had remained safe, by miracle it was that the Night King had headed straight for Winterfell and ignored Wintertown. Not a hair on the smallfolk’s head was touched, and in their fortune still the villagers decided to pick up their tools and help the Lady of Winterfell set her home to right.

 

It was there that Lord Tyrion had last insisted that Jon join, there that Jon stalked away from the the handful that returned from defending their own, and leaders of Daenerys’s host. Having taken his place in the makeshift council was Ser Jaime Lannister, and his presence inn a place of honor was absurd to Jon until he was reminded again at the sight of Ser Jaime’s wounds. The man fought bravely, allowing his family to flee the onslaught. All while he tarried, held back by rules and cautioned from riding off alone.

 

He wondered how long he had been staring at the entrance of the crypts, because across the godswood Jon saw his sister Sansa walking towards him, her face as always set and grim. This life had not been kind to Sansa. Once she had dreamed of marrying a king, of being queen of her own castle. With her Tully face and Stark heart Sansa had been made to be a lady of a grand and proud name. Now she was a lady to the ruins of her father’s greatness.

 

She stopped before him now, her head tilted to the side. “You know they are alive,” she told him.

 

“How would I know that?” he asked in return, his voice, he found, a mere rasp. Dozens of men had fanned into the various corridors of the crypt. He himself had wandered into the lowest levels he could find. Inside Ghost, Jon had gone ever farther, into corners and vaults he never knew before.

 

“If they were not, I trust that we would have known. We would have felt—something,” Sansa stammered.

 

He nodded towards the crypt, and told his sister, “I am about to go in.”

 

“Jon,” she started.

 

“You know you can’t change my mind, Sansa,” he said as a matter of fact. “Not when Daenerys is in there. Not when Arya is lost. You would waste your breath to try.”

 

~o~o~

 

There was light.

 

Many times in the endless hours that had passed, Daenerys had thought that she was near breaking. At times Arya would fall to her knees. The girl had been brave, leading them to the farthest corner to be saved. Daenerys was certain that by now her army had cut down the wights. By now Jon had arrived with the host, and her husband would have destroyed the Night King. 

 

They ascended each level, and by the time that break of light appeared, Daenerys broke into a run pulling Arya behind her. The girl was still so quiet, so rocked by the experience of being lost int he crypts.

 

“Arya,” Daenerys said gently, stopping before stone statues they had certainly passed on their way down. There was a tingle that crawled like fingers from her scalp down to her nape. Daenerys could swear the stone statues looked back at her with bright blue eyes.

 

Bright blue eyes in her mind’s eye, and she would not know why.

 

She drew Jon’s little sister close to her, at first uncomfortable with the gesture. Daenerys had not spent much time thinking of family, much less having one. Of course she had seen the way families moved in every city she had conquered. Daenerys gingerly wrapped her arms around Arya in assurance, and gasped when the girl tightened her embrace.

 

“I will get you out of here,” she swore in her firm voice.

 

Arya merely looked up at her, her eyes large and round. “What is happening?” Arya asked, the gaze on her was searching, disbelieving.

 

The girl acted oddly, but Daenerys supposed after getting lost in the crypts, Arya had the right to be shaken.

 

Daenerys drew Arya towards the light, until finally they reached the familiar stone steps leading upwards. In those crypts Daenerys had felt the surge in her blood that allowed her to be quicker. With every step she slowed, her limbs growing heavy, her mouth going dry and her head seemed to full, painful. When she emerged out of the crypt, the brightness sent sharp pain shooting into her eyes. She shielded her eyes with her arm.

 

“Daenerys!” His voice rang, warm and familiar, a caress of flame after what felt like a lifetime in the cold.

 

Immediately she could feel a sob catch in her throat. She looked up to see him, and he was beautiful to see after so long in darkness. Across the lichyard, past the gravestone markers, she found the strength to rush to him. And then she could see his legs eating away at the distance between them, no matter how fast she moved she could not make it to him quick enough.

 

And then his arms were around her as soon as she stumbled. “Jon,” she whispered, her throat pained. 

 

Her lips were cracked and dry, but when Jon’s lips caressed hers they parted with familiarity, coming home into his kiss. Her eyes fluttered shut. When their mouths parted, his forehead rested on hers for a thousand heartbeats it seemed. Finally, she opened her eyes to see warm gray ones studying her. Daenerys smiled tearfully, and held his face with her hands. 

 

“I missed you, Jon.”

 

And then the world around her slowly sank into place. The edges of her vision formed, and she could see the empty heart tree where they wed, noted how Sansa had greeted her sister on Arya’s return. And then behind Jon, over his shoulder, Daenerys’s smile faded when she saw Lady Brienne looking towards them, her eyes wide, her mouth slack. And then the lady knight shook her head and turned her gaze away.  

 

Daenerys turned to find next Lord Tyrion stopped with a hooded figure, right at the path towards the crypt. Her hand appeared triumphant at her return. The figure took the hood off of his head and let it fall. 

 

Ser Jorah.

 

The most loyal, the most devoted of any of them all. He loved her. Many times she knew it. 

 

The knight lowered his head to the ground, took a breath so deep it was a release, and then slowly he raised his gaze to hers again. And then with a nod, he continued towards his queen and the warden of the North.

 

At her side, Jon grasped Ser Jorah’s arm in greeting. Ser Jorah reported then, “Deepwood Motte suffered casualties, my lord. The ride was long and hard, and the wights were crawling all over the village when we arrived.”

 

Jon nodded in acceptance. 

 

Daenerys’s brow furrowed. “Deepwood Motte? You were farther west, Ser Jorah?”

 

“At the lord paramount’s command, I took a portion of the host with me to defend that keep against the wights.” Ser Jorah regarded Jon, and admitted, “It was a decision that saved countless lives.”

 

She could imagine that siege, in a keep without the protection that she had. It would have been much worse. “How many did we lose?”

 

“A third, your grace.”

 

Her hand closed around Jon’s. “Then more than half of them live because of your actions and Lord Snow’s decision.” She noticed how Ser Jorah’s eyes flittered over to fingers that entwined. “Thank you for your service, Ser Jorah.”

 

“Always, khaleesi.” The knight leaned forward slightly, in a casual bid to leave. 

 

Instead of the permission expected, she told her loyal knight. “A favor, Ser Jorah.”

 

“Anything, khaleesi.”

 

“Perhaps by now we can put Drogo to rest and with him the name I received for being his wife.” Daenerys glanced at her husband, and then continued to her knight protector. “We are in Westeros now. Here, I am queen, not khaleesi.” She no longer waited for a response. She knew what it would be. An acknowledgement, without objection. Gently she gestured her leave of him.

 

She turned to Ser Jorah’s abandoned companion now, and Daenerys looked at the injury with concern. “Glad you are alive, Lord Tyrion, after such a foolish move.” She looked up and around, and asked, “Where are the men who held Winterfell? We must honor them. They are heroes.” To her hand, she asked, “Will you send them to the bailey, Lord Tyrion? Their queen would like to thank them.”

 

Behind her, she noticed Arya walking to her brother. She turned and saw how Jon had embraced her fondly, and Daenerys was glad that she managed to keep the younger sister alive. And then Arya whispered to Jon—secrets, perhaps, or answers.

 

Daenerys saw when Jon looked up from Arya to her. His dark brows drew together.

 

She turned her back to the siblings, and allowed Lord Tyrion to lead her to the bailey. There, the group of men gathered. Daenerys called to Grey Worm in Valyrian, and the thick words that came in response woke something inside.

 

“Where are the rest of them?” she had asked. “Those installed to protect me when you rode.”

 

“Dead. Dead save seventy lucky ones, your grace,” Grey Worm had replied to her.

 

 From her gut, to her arms, to her knees she trembled. Daenerys wondered if this was what Viserys felt overcome him each time his dragon woke.

 

“Seventy men stand before me,” she said loudly for all to hear. “Seventy of two thousand brave souls survived.” She glared at the sky, saw her children fly and roar above her. “You have given your life to me and mine, and I swear to you in return I will fight for you. I will not let this stand!” she cried. “We will make them pay for taking your brothers.”

 

One by one, each lieutenant came to stand at Daenerys feet, her chin high as she listened to every name of the men in the company that fell. The pounding of the spears low and stready. One by one the lieutenants read them, and once they were finished Daenerys easily switched tongues to Dothraki, repeated the same request. With every horselord that had risen to the stars, a burst of piercing scream.

 

Hours. It only took hours to speak names of lifetimes lost.

 

When the last name was said, Daenerys turned her back to the host. She struggled to fight back tears, sucking in deep breaths to calm her. Jon stood away from her, watching her. It was the first time he had seen her lead her people, and all he saw were promises and mourning.

 

They had survived in Essos, crossed the Narrow Sea, and turned to ash in Westeros.

 

Daenerys wiped her tears away with trembling fingers. Once composed she turned around and made her way across the bailey, past the portcullis until she reached the clearing outside the gate. Loudly, she called for her dragon.

 

Not long after that she was gliding in the sky, leaving Winterfell behind, her largest son taking her across distances she would have not comprehended before. She was focused on the vast whiteness of the ground. Her eyes narrowed when finally, she saw them like little bugs beneath her. Her lips curled, burning inside.

 

She lowered herself, lined up along Drogon’s neck. “Dracarys!” she screamed her command. Gone was the measured way she instructed her dragon. The burst of flame that flew out of Drogon’s mouth obliterated a hundred at once, she could see. She urged Drogon to turn his breath and watch the broken bodies as they fell and exploded. With cold precision Daenerys and Drogon went through the thick army of wights, felling them as the count in her head climbed.

 

“Drogon,” she said slowly, as she spotted the whitewalker at the back of the thick lines. Daenerys flew Drogon up and above, and then held firmly as she and Drogon made for a dead drop, the heat of the flame she could feel as Drogon burned the white walker directly from above.

 

“Four thousand,” she said in grim satisfaction as the wights that walker had made were destroyed along with him. For every man that fell of hers, she would take two. And then tomorrow, she would take four, then eight, then sixteen. And it would never end until the last walker fell.

 

Daenerys soothed Drogon, knowing her child would be too exhausted now. She was thirsty and hungry and exhausted, but the names of her men repeated over and over again in her head. 

 

That was when she saw him.

 

Drogon padded across the snow, closer to the Night King. She slowly transitioned into a run towards the enemy, when suddenly Viserion slammed onto Drogon’s much larger body. Daenerys cried out when she lost her grip on Drogon’s back, and she scraped on the abrasive scales, tearing a portion of her dress and slicing a long thin wound on her arm. She fell onto the snow and at once rolled as far away as she could from the dragons. It was a secret so shameful to the family, Viserys told her, that no one had ever confirmed it. Rhaenys, Aegon the Conqueror’s favorite wife, as pure of a dragon as a woman had been made, died when her dragon crushed her body into the desert sand.

 

Dragons fighting dragons was unnatural, a twist of nature so perverse the gods decided to instead tear the world apart. And it seemed so then—bastards claiming crowns, vassal felling liege, lone Targaryens lost int he world.

 

She gasped for breath as she lay in the snow. Daenerys lay her head back as she rested her body flat, her hand resting on her womb, blinking back tears as she willed her child to hold. And then his shadow blocked the sun above. Daenerys could see only his silhouette over her.

 

The Night King fell on his knees beside her, then tilted his head, looking intently at her. Her heart pounded in her chest. She could swear that the Night King heard, because afterwards his long nail traced the neck of her dress. And then he stood, looking into the direction of Winterfell.

 

Daenerys closed her eyes, and her dreams were full of gray eyes vanishing and bleeding into the darkness, then bright blue eyes. Haunted blue eyes.

 

In her dreams Daenerys woke to find the dark chains holding her down. She struggled against it, and the more it tightened around her wrists and ankles. She turned back towards the snow where he had fallen. Her womb tightened and her spine twisted at the pain. Blood was so hot, she realized, as the pain struck her and the blood sluggishly pumped from between her legs, draining her cold body of the only heat it had.

 

“Lord Commander!” she heard a frightened cry. 

 

She was thrown into the back of a wagon. Her body curled into itself to keep the pain within. She screamed, a pealing anguished cry. From her position on the floor of the wagon, she looked up outside as he pulled the dragonglass from his chest. They had thought to kill him, only to give him the immortal life she could not give him.

 

The wildlings reached for him and held him back. He would be stronger soon enough, stronger than those that converged against them. The wildlings in the North and the Starks in the South. His fiery blue eyes held hers as they grew smaller and smaller, vanishing into the horizon.

 

~o~o~

 

“We saw something,” Arya whispered. “Something in the crypts. Jon, it was horrible.”

 

Jon watched as Daenerys addressed her men, emotional and powerful at the same time. This was what a leader was. This was what a queen should be.

 

“Jon, she is acting like she had no memory of it. It’s impossible. I saw it once and I will never forget it.” Arya bit her lip, and turned to look at the queen. “She touched Daenerys.”

 

And then Jon saw her leave the bailey. Jon followed quickly behind her. She had just been trapped for two days without food or water, and still she was unsteady on her feet. But he had heard her in the courtyard and saw what learning of her men’s defeat had done to her. Daenerys got onto Drogon and he had assumed she would fly to clear her head. When still did not return, Jon called on Rhaegal to find her.

 

He had seen the many fallen wights littering the snow, broken parts and smoldering limbs. This was how Daenerys mourned.

 

When he saw her motionless in the snow, his heart stopped. He jumped off of Rhaegal before the dragon had fully settled onto the ground. Jon rushed to her side and touched her cheek, patting gently but insistently. She moaned, as good a sign of life as any. He helped her to her feet. 

 

The torn piece of her dress lay on snow, fluttering in the wind. An ashy silver caught his eye on the skin of her chest. When Jon moved her dress aside he daw the long discolored mark on her.

 

She touched Daenerys, Arya had told him.

 

Bran had been touched too.

 

The Kings of Winter held their swords on their laps, immortalized in stone, guarding the living from the spirits that lay underneath the crypts.

 

Old Nan’s voice haunted him with stories of old that he had first believed were made up by a fertile mind and a sadistic streak. 

 

“Daenerys,” he said, his voice urgently, hoping she would look at him, wishing he would be enough. Slowly, she looked back at him. “You did well.” And she nodded, and with him walked towards Drogon.

 

That night when he took her back to the rooms prepared in the temporary keep, she fumbled on the dress that grew heavy with the snow and soil that had mixed into mud. Her hands trembled inside the crusty gloves, and the ties too easily slid off her fingers. His hands closed over hers. He held her gaze as one by one he took the fingertip of each glove and shook her hand free. When finally her fingers could breathe, Jon pulled the glove off. He then started on the other.

 

When he held her gaze this way, he was certain she was there.

 

Jon peeled the heavy dress from her shoulders, and listened to the considerable thud on the floor. His eyes lowered and he ran rough fingers over her pale skin. Gingerly, he traced the mark on her skin. He knew not what could happen or what it meant. But the mark was like a brand on her, or a scar such as the one above his heart.

 

He kissed the brand, much like she had kissed his scar a million times before. 

 

Gently he moved her so she would sit on the bed. He lowered himself to his knees before her. She was bare now, with her wet clothes removed. Daenerys reached up and back and carefully removed the bindings in her hair until the silver hair that remained curled from the braids that had just been freed.

 

Still the loveliest woman he had ever seen. The gentle swell of her belly reminded him of the way the moon waxed in the distance when he was high up on the wall and skies were clear. The moon was a goddess then, so mesmerizing and in the black night sky she seemed to be everything. Her breasts were getting larger now, the crowns upon them rosier still. She stirred him still, the mother of his child. 

 

But the fear inside him grew bigger still. Jon removed her boots and set them aside. There was a quiet knock on the doorway, and Jon quietly informed the maid to leave. When he returned he held the warm, wet cloth to use on her.

 

“Jon, you can send one of the women—“

 

He shook his head and sat beside her on the bed. The mark on her skin taunted him, but still he used the warm cloth to wipe off the mud that had caked on her chin, the soot that stained her neck. The nights was hers, not his. She murmured her pleasure at his attention, and he allowed himself a small amount of satisfaction that even in this he could make up for the royal fuckery he had caused to her and hers.

 

He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that crawled down. “I’m sorry, Daenerys,” he admitted, the words falling off his tongue too easily now, as if he had practice, as if he needed to build the skill to say the words again. 

 

Her response was to turn her head and press her lips into his palm.

 

The night was hers, Jon decided, and gently he laid her down naked on the furs. Perhaps it was the Stark inside her now, but she started to hate the burdensome clothing or even covers when she slept. Jon climbed onto the bed, raising himself over her, fully clothed. Her thighs parted easily to cradle him. When he felt her hands reach for him between their bodies, Jon still her searching by grabbing her wrists. And then he pressed her wrists down to the bed. He moved down her body. She raised herself up on her elbows and watched him settle. She released a sigh and threw back her head when he lowered his lips to taste her. “Jon,” she breathed. His name had never sounded so wonderful to him. 

 

He released her wrists to hold open her thighs, felt her trembling under his fingers. When his tongue thrust out to lick her, she collapsed flat on her back. The muscles of her legs tightened, and she grasped his hair.

 

Her release was quiet. Shaking, limp, Daenerys rolled on her side. Jon pressed himself up on her back and gathered her trembling body within his embrace. The sweat cooled from body without the covers. Jon swore that she cried. From behind he dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. He felt it when Daenerys’s body relaxed and she slept.

 

As reward, he allowed sleep to overtake his body.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Part 12**

 

He woke in early morning as it was colder than before. His arms were empty. Jon looked around the room and realized that his wife had slipped away in the night. When he searched around the keep, he could not find her. His hands grew moist as the tension settled over him.

 

Jon searched his mind for Ghost, so he could find her faster.

 

The knock on the door interrupted, and Jon stood to open it. It was Ser Jorah, his look somber. “I apologize, Lord Snow.”

 

“Have you found her?” was all he needed to know.

 

The older knight nodded gravely, then motioned for the lord to follow him. “The man on the post said they saw her from a distance, my lord.” They climbed up the ramparts to ensure they would have an uninterrupted view.

 

There he saw her from above. Daenerys stood in the open field, a figure in a thin gown, all by herself. And then he saw the darkening horizon, a sign of a gathering army. With a curse, Jon took the steps down two at a time. He took the horse closest to him, and yelled at the guards to raise the portcullis. With snow scattered behind them, Jon took the horse on a frantic ride across the open field. He was near her when he dismounted. Jon observed his wife looking ahead in the blank ice.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asked carefully.

 

His wife drew a deep cooling breath, her gaze unwavering from the horizon. “I was called here.”

 

“By whom?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

 

Jon stepped towards Daenerys, then noticed she stood barefoot in the snow. Her feet were near blue and very raw. “Come with me, Daenerys.” Her brows furrowed as she looked at the hand he extended towards her. His heart stopped when she looked back at him and there was no recognition in her eyes. “Dany,” he slipped again, even knowing the name reminded her of her brother. He stepped forward and grasped her cold arm. “Daenerys,” he said more forcefully. “Come back.”

 

He felt her try to pull away from him, but he held tight. “Daenerys, look at me.”

 

He saw the moment it happened. It was as if a small fire lit in her eyes. She looked around her and realized where she was and her very state. When before she tried to get away, now she gripped his wrist. “Jon, what is happening to me?”

 

“What did you see, Daenerys?” She shook her head, and he gripped her hands to steady her. “Tell me. I swear I will make it right.”

 

She searched her mind, eyes squeezed tightly, painfully it seemed, as if the memory was long buried in her head. 

 

“I don’t know,” she whispered, helplessly, unlike the woman who without effort stood to command her army. Before her grown men trembled. 

 

“You saw something,” he prompted her. “Arya said she touched you.”

 

Her lips fluttered open and she looked back up at him with liquid eyes. “You can’t help me,” she realized. “There is someone in the crypts, Jon. There is someone trapped there.”

 

Ghosts. Monsters. Spirits that the Kings of Winter took as prisoner, trapped underneath Winterfell, guarded forever by the dead Stark kings.

 

It was just a legend.

 

Then again, so were the wights and the long night.

 

He took her up on his horse to get out of the snow. “I believe you,” he said to her, knowing she needed to hear it. How could he not? “Do you know who it is? What does she want?”

 

“I don’t. But I have dreams.” She looked back out there towards the bleak horizon. “My dreams come true, Jon. But these can’t. I think they already happened.” His jaw set as he listened intently to her. As she narrated her dreams, Jon felt a chill that was caused by more than the snow. She talked about the frozen fort, with the collapsed icy walls and the tree that broke from the ground, shattering the stone floor of that castle.

 

He had seen it before, but never had she. Dread filled him as he realized what she meant. She spoke about the ruins of another castle on the wall. The Nightfort, he remembered, that cursed and abandoned holding of the Night’s Watch near Castle Black. It was a castle of stories, a castle forbidden to the brothers far longer than anyone managed to write its history.

 

No one wrote, but stories had passed from mouth to mouth, from songs, from horrific bedtime stories told to children in their bed.

 

She talked about the dark haired man who ruled it as her king, clad in the black vest of the brothers on the wall. She told him of his murder, held down by wildlings and wolves of men.

 

Jon knew it, heard it before. She told him how she had seen him rise again, gray eyes turned fiery blue as he vanished in the distance.

 

“That Brandon Stark,” he remembered Old Nan whisper to him. “The shame of Winterfell.” It was a name she never told his siblings. Instead she would chuckle low in her throat and tell him, “Thank the gods you are not a Stark, boy. There are many shadows darkening the name, just forgotten, but not gone.”

 

In many of those times, his father would peer into his room. Ned gruffly told him to go to sleep, and poor Old Nan to quit filling the children’s minds with rubbish tales and fantasy. Jon did not believe Old Nan’s tales, he told the woman. Yet still since then whenever he passed the ironwood cast door sealing the Winterfell crypts, Jon would step quicker to get past.

 

Even then he only thought of shadows and spirits and ghosts, but never a real monster such as this.

 

The thirteenth Lord Commander, he remembered whispers. Thirteen years he ruled with his corpse bride from beyond the wall, and darkness fell over their kingdom of the Wall, until two opposing kingdoms joined together to bring them down.

 

Daenerys touched the mark on her breast. “She touched me,” she remembered his words. “She’s looking for him.” Her brows furrowed when she remembered. “She screamed for him, Jon.” Daenerys looked back at her husband. “She wants me to find him.”

 

Only when he was dead and cold, and even then he would fight from the other side. The Night King would never come close to her again.

 

“I think he knows. He knows if I can see him, she will see.” And then she squeezed his hand. “He wants to find her. Jon, if that is how we come close—“

 

Never again.

 

“There is one way we can end this winter.”

 

His wife’s form in front of him on the horse was tense, and he swore he would be watchful. He knew her now, cursed these times the faith she had in herself that placed her in danger. Jon had no doubt if she could she would use this mark to attempt to destroy her enemy.

 

As they neared the gates of Winterfell, Jon saw the line of men standing watch at the ramparts. He tightened the cloak that he placed around her shoulders. There was no need for more of them to see their queen this way. Through the gates, Jon found Sansa waiting anxiously.

 

They stopped at the center of the courtyard. When he dismounted he reached for her. Where before Ser Jorah would have attempted to assist his queen himself, this time Ser Jorah waited at the sidelines. The moment her feet touched the ground she winced at the rawness of her feet. 

 

Jon moved to ease the pain by lifting her, but Daenerys pushed at his chest. “Not here, Jon,” she objected. Jon glanced around the bailey. Lords of the Northern houses that had passed the wight threat for now had returned to the lord paramount in Winterfell, a sign of stronger loyalty in exchange for the help that the Targaryen host provided. 

 

He noticed Ser Jaime watching closely. Daenerys reached a hand toward Ser Jorah, and the knight quickly stepped forward. At Jon’s curt nod, Ser Jorah lifted her into his arms.  

 

Jon Snow turned to Arya and told her, “Can you show me?” 

 

Arya challenged him. “No. No one should ever go there again. Let the dead kings guard her forever, Jon. We already know the blood magic is strong.”

 

“I believe, my lord, it is time for the council to meet.” When Jon hesitated, the hand replied, “If you will tell them, make your decision now. Let your people understand why you need to go up to your chambers while the Night King is coming.” Jon did not move. “If you will not, then meet with the council. It is apparent that the queen cannot be asked to stand before the men today. We need the King in the North.”

 

“I need to go down into the crypts.”

 

“The crypts will stay below. We will not when the wights arrive,” argued Tyrion. The hand paused. He cleared his throat then sidled nearer Jon. “Do you really want them coming closer, when the queen is ripening?” Jon’s jaw set tighter. “I am not blind, my lord. If this is from the ship, soon the babe will be grown enough that even the blind can see.”

 

~o~o~

 

Jon stormed into the small council that Lord Tyrion had gathered since. Tyrion gestured to a place for him at the head of the table, a position on the council that Daenerys normally filled. He looked around the room and saw the handful of people there, handselected by Lord Tyrion. Lady Sansa, of course, was there. Lord Tyrion and Ser Jorah came, speaking for Daenerys. With him, Ser Davos. The man oddly placed, but fast was becoming a regular part of these meetings because Lord Tyrion insisted and Jon owed him Daenerys’s life, was Jaime Lannister.

 

“There are things I must do,” Jon said immediately. He needed Bran. He needed to understand the mark, wanted to know how he could remove the threat to his wife. At least he needed to know what it could do.

 

Sansa sighed. “I know,” said his sister. She worried her lip, her body tense as she decided whether or not to speak of these things now. Jon knew she had never been a wilting maid, nor had she ever held her tongue. In her own time, she would tell him. “But those monsters are at our door, and we are in danger.” 

 

“You are surrounded by more than a hundred thousand men from Essos, and a few thousand from the North. You are in safest keep in Westeros, Sansa.”

 

It was not long before she blurted out, “The queen’s army still has not sworn allegiance to you.”

 

Just as the Northmen refused her, so did the Unsullied and Dothraki stand tall—not against—but certainly not for him.

 

“We need to convince them, Jon,” Sansa continued. “You said you saw the Night King’s gathering army again.”

 

“Aye,” he replied. “Daenerys dispatched thousands of the wights close by—four thousand I think, all by herself on Drogon.” He could not push down the pride he felt at that. “He is amassing his numbers. He could be ordering the walkers to send the wights back here.”

 

“She can still save us all,” Ser Jorah said as he returned to the council, admiration apparent in his face. “We simply give her time to recover her strength. She was promised to bring an end to this war. Whatever happens to me in this war, I will rest easy knowing I helped save this land by bringing the queen across the Narrow Sea.”

 

Ser Davos rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “We cannot expect the queen to lead a charge against the wights now. She—she—“ He stammered, as a loss for words. He threw a look towards Jon. “The queen is unwell. You saw what I saw, did you not?”

 

“That is exactly the point,” Sansa argued. “Jon, the army only takes the queen’s command. We need you to lead them. How can I trust that they will defend us if they don’t—“

 

“They will defend you,” Ser Jorah said in defense of the Targaryen host. “The men we have brought with us from Winterfell is unwavering. They are intensely loyal to the queen. But when the fight breaks, they will be on your side.”

 

“This is what I know from Lady Brienne. Already there had been talk among them when the queen was missing, about returning to Essos if she did not return. That sounds to me like men eager to break their pledge.”

 

“That is not breaking pledge, my lady,” Ser Jorah corrected. 

 

“How can a man truly serve another to the death if he had another choice? Jon swore to be a brother in the Night’s Watch until death, and here he is.” Ser Davos straightened to oppose the words, but Jon raised a hand to stop him. She gestured towards Ser Jaime. “Even Jaime Lannister, devoted to his sister Queen Cersei, is right here in Winterfell instead of King’s Landing. He abandoned his sworn queen the moment he met another.”

 

Jaime Lannister abruptly looked up. And then he shook his head and remained quiet.

 

“The hand of the queen is here. They know Daenerys speaks through Lord Tyrion. If we need to, we will bring the queen to them. She can give one command that will carry until the keep is safe.” To Jon, Ser Jorah said, “Even if they don’t bend the knee to you, they will be cut down and torn apart by enemies before they allow the wights close.”

 

Sansa’s lips thinned. “They are on Stark lands, eating grain that Winterfell provides.” She shook her head. “And you had given their queen the honor of bending the knee. Why can’t they do the same to you?” 

 

“Because no man will kneel to two monarchs. Daenerys Stormborn is their queen, no other. If we need to, she will come before her men.”

 

She turned a withering glare to Ser Jorah. “I will not drag Daenerys Targaryen and parade her before her men just because none of the men in this room can figure out how to win over her army! Not now.”

 

Jon watched his sister in awe. He could not even remember when Sansa was last this passionate for another person. 

 

“My lady,” Ser Davos objected, “this host will never allow us to usurp their queen’s power.”

 

“Jon, we need them to pledge loyalty to you. We need them to follow your command, not wait for the queen to tell them she approves. You know they should pledge loyalty to you.”

 

“When I traveled beyond the wall to capture the wight, we were surrounded by the Night King’s army much as you were here,” he told his sister. “We would have died. We lost a man that day. It haunts me to this day. Without Daenerys I would not be here today. Her army owes me nothing.”

 

“They owe you the same faith that they owe the queen, Jon. They may not have chosen you, but their queen did.” At this, Sansa gripped his hand, squeezing it tightly. “Now get yourself together because they do not know it yet, but they need a leader. You.” She paused, then her eyes darted to Lord Tyrion. The hand of the queen agreed. “Use it, Jon,’ Sansa urged. “For all our sakes, use it.”

 

He knew it was no betrayal, because Sansa merely ever thought of Winterfell, of defending it and its people.

 

“What would you have me do, Sansa? Do you want me to come up there and demand their loyalty, ask them to charge behind me against the Night King?” He shook his head. He was not made for this. He used his passion and his heart, his emotions take hold of his head and that was not a man for war. His heart wielded his sword, truly, not his arm. Too many times he broke his own intention because of what he felt, and it would lead to death. Once was his, and many times it was death to those who followed him. “I did that once and lost all those men, almost lost you all.” 

 

“No,” Sansa said firmly. “You know how have them follow you. It’s done, and it is not like you lie. Use it.”

 

“Use what?” Ser Jaime asked. Tyrion shook his head.

 

Once in the long beautiful nights when they were at sea, Jon told her about Ygritte. His voice had been thick with regret at the thought of that love lost, but it surprised him then how it was that the clenching pain that oft accompanied her memory had eased. He had thought back then how he would never again love anyone as much.

 

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

 

Ygritte would have chuckled had she known that he would prove her right. Jon Snow knew nothing then of the things he thought he knew. He knew how much more a man can love, and how much a man can lose himself. 

 

That night when their thrumming bodies cooled, Daenerys had told him about the husband that the witch had taken from her. In her voice he heard the fondness, and he held her close even as he found himself baffled by that affection for a man who had bought and used her.

 

“I was nothing,” she had whispered to him, her kiss a breath of her lips on his chest. The words were rough in his ears, because nothing was never going to be the dragon queen in bed with him, the one so fiery she burned the sheets in much the same way she blazed through the desert, cities across it falling to their knees. “I was nothing, had nothing, would have been nothing. I could have been nothing under Drogo. Instead he allowed me to be his khaleesi beside him.” She rolled onto her stomach then, and rested her chin on her arms crossed over his chest. In those moments she allowed herself to trace circles on him with her fingertips. Just so. “After a life of waking the dragon, I woke my own. I would give him a son, the fulfillment of the great Dothraki prophecy—the Stallion that Mounts the World. In return he gave me voice to oppose his kos, and power to break free his captives from the fate that awaited them underneath his men. And I learned then that I liked that power.”

 

It was that night that she had told him of his fate. While Jon had learned of her dead husband’s name through stories, and knew the acts that made even Robert Baratheon fear the day that the khal would find ships and sail to Westeros, he did not know then how Drogo died. She had lived it many times before, he realized, when even when she told him of the godswife and the death of her child, her face was blank, remote.

 

The poison in his blood, from a wound that festered, made him weak enough to fall from his horse. The khal that had never once been defeated, who could no longer mount a horse, was a khal without a khalasar.

 

Much like he himself, Jon thought. 

 

But he was not a broken khal. He had stumbled, but had certainly not fallen off.

 

“You are king in the north, Jon. You gave it up the Northern crown, but it doesn’t change that you are the man that all the Northern lords saw fit to be king.”

 

To be a man, kill the boy, Maester Aemon had told him. First he needed to admit the mistakes that he had done, his shortfalls, his sins.

 

He had charged at Ramsay in battle, abandoning his line and his men. At the idea of capturing a wight, he had taken a small band of men across the wall to face tens of thousands of mindless wights. 

 

He had taken Daenerys’s army and her dragons, and left his family open for the Night King. That was not what good kings did.

 

All these he had done and loyal men died.

 

“Is that it then?” Ser Davos inquired. “You will not lead the men because of your mistakes?” 

 

“Mistake?” Jon repeated. “I put lives at risk—my family, Ser Davos.”

 

“And just how many did you save?” challenged his hand.

 

“Forgive me, my lord, for interrupting you,” Lord Tyrion said. He nodded towards Jaime. “Whoever said a king needs to lead the army any way?” 

 

Kings that truly made a difference lead from the front. “Aegon the Conqueror rode Balerion at the head of his host. Westeros bent the knee.”

 

“But you are not Aegon, and nobody is expecting you to be,” Tyrion pointed out. “From all accounts, you have no designs to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. Not even the queen wants you to be in the frontline. In fact, you would probably make her happier if you elected to sit out your wars and set aside your heroics.” Tyrion shrugged, his look intent. “Instead, in the short while you were in Dragonstone you had managed to get her in the frontlines herself, endangering all we had worked for and the future of the realm.”

 

Soon, fear would no longer strike the hearts of those who loved her when she ventured out into the field. Soon, Northmen would not think to harm her because of whose blood ran in her veins. Soon, the fight would stop. He wished to the gods that it would come before his child was born.

 

It was enough to jar him from his stupor. The world that his and Daenerys’s child would inherit must not be the world that its parents strived every day to survive. Surviving, after all, was different from living.

 

He had lived his whole life knowing he needed to contain the threat north of the wall.

 

She had fought every day to crush the usurpers to the south.

 

And somehow it was worth the anguish, to know that someday it was his blood and hers that would take the world, the fruits of the labor they sowed harvested by a child that was the best of him and her.

 

He imagined a girl with his dark hair and her purple eyes, or a boy with her silver hair and her gray eyes.

 

If it were true, that it was only his own fear of another failure that paralyzed him, it was not worth standing by in futility.

 

“I need to have an army,” he pronounced. “Tell me,” he said, “what should I do to have the Daenerys’s host behind me?”

 

“For the many skills in fighting you had learned since we first met, bastard of Winterfell,” Jaime began, “leading a ground war is not one of them. War is not some pissing game between warriors, where the best and most passionate pisser gets to piss on the tallest block. Our sister Queen Cersei has never been in the frontlines, yet her army is behind her.”

 

“Even when I was most down I never wanted to be like Cersei Lannister.”

 

Jaime shook his head. “I am telling you that men will rally behind a leader, even if he does not throw himself into danger, and others as well.” When Jon remained silent, Jaime took it as a sign that he was listening. “Get yourself some good and strong generals, Lord Snow. No matter the kind of leader you are, no matter if you think with your head or your heart or your cock, men will fall behind you.”

 

“In fact, while Aegon rode into battles there were a great many that were fought for him, sometimes by his wives,” Tyrion offered.

 

“You want me to be protected, and have Daenerys fight for me?” Jon had never been a Targaryen scholar. Arya had consumed texts in Valyrian and it seemed that Lord Tyrion may have as well. 

 

“You can lead, be loved, remembered fondly—no matter the leader you are. You ask how the army will follow you without Daenerys,” Tyrion said, his voice deep, soothing. “Aegon was a warrior, Visenya a strategist, and Rhaenys was a unifier. Yet today, long after they were gone, people may fear them, love them or hate them—but everyone, including the North, still respect what they managed to do.” Tyrion watched him carefully. “I simply say, my lord, that there are times when you charge into battle and be the hero, and there are days when you need to sit back and listen to counsel, recognize lieutenants who will step up and lead the army for you. They have had all their lives training for war — Grey Worm, the Dothraki kos, Jaime.”

 

“I am not their king.” 

 

“Think back to how your brothers in black chose you. You were a boy, and you certainly did not have power then. Still, they chose you because you were as much a part of them and they you. You listened and you learned, and you taught back in return, before you led.” 

 

Tyrion and Sansa’s eyes met. “If you tell them, Jon, they will fall behind you.”

 

“And what of the North?”

 

“You will have a hundred thousand men,” Tyrion stated. “There is strength behind that. Your Northern lords will see that strength and fall behind you as well.”

 

At the cryptic discussion, Ser Davos looked back and forth among the three—Tyrion, Sansa and Jon. And then the older man broke into a chuckle and shook his head. “By the gods, you did it!” 

 

Ser Jorah looked down on the table, then sighed deeply. “I suppose you did it before the old gods?” 

 

Jon nodded. “In the Winterfell godswood itself, before we set out for Karhold.”

 

And then Jaime Lannister’s puzzled look cleared. “You made an alliance. She married you, in exchange for bending the knee?” His surprise turned into admiration. “Ned Stark’s bastard has truly moved up in the world.”

 

“Who witnessed it?” Ser Davos wanted to know. 

 

“Lord Tyrion for the queen, and Lady Sansa for the North.”

 

Ser Jaime shook his head, chuckling. “Is this true then?” Jaime wondered. “Has there been a marriage sealed between the King in the North and the Dragon Queen?” Jaime looked at his brother. “Our sister’s odds are stacked against her.”

 

“So it’s decided?” Sansa prompted. “It is the right decision, Jon. You can address them tonight.”

 

Jon Snow held up a hand. “Let me speak to my wife,” he said easily, the name rolling off his tongue he stopped short the moment he heard. His wife. It was the first time he had said it before them. It was a burden relieved from his shoulders.

 

~~

 

Her feet burned in her boots, but the cloak he gifted her for their wedding kept her warm. Around her it grew darker and colder, but she did not mind. Daenerys was growing fond of the cold of Winterfell. Her Stark child—no, her Snow child—kept her warm in this winter. There could be no other reason that someone who had grown up in the warmth Essos would so easily adapt to this cold.

 

Soon her child would grow heavy, Daenerys thought, cradling the swell of her belly as she inserted herself into the small space.

 

This time, because she knew what to expect, Daenerys lifted the torch light up high and shined its bright light across the vault. The figure in the corner moved. Daenerys took the sack on her shoulders and one by one took out the torches she had taken. As she lit them apiece the dreary space started to look like a rough dungeon.

 

Even as her heart pumped hard with her nervousness, Daenerys kept her head up and stared back when blue eyes glared at her. She kept herself back. Daenerys could still remember where she was standing then, when frozen fire burned her heart. She could still feel its pain at times, especially at night.

 

The sound came, the same that she could remember in her dreams, of cracking ice that sent cold fingers trailing down her neck.

 

“What do you want?” Daenerys promounced succinctly. 

 

Breaking, chipping, shattering.

 

She took the woolen blankets from her sack and sat herself on the floor. The Valyrian steel chain and chuffs glinted in the fire. Belatedly, Daenerys noticed the restlessness in a prisoner trapped for eight thousand years. The warmth, she realized. The torches and their warmth. She picked up one of the torches and rolled it towards the other, who hissed and moved away as much as the chains allowed.

 

Daenerys leaned back against the wall, folding her legs underneath her. She was not going to live her life expecting at any time that this other could overtake her will, nor use her to see outside her cursed vault. All she could do was fervently hope that the same way she understood her dreams through the other’s eyes, so she would understand what she needed.

 

“I know who are,” Daenerys decided to tell the other. Illiorio had shared with her in those infrequent times he spoke directly at her and not her brother, that if you wished to hear, you must speak—a tale for a tale. “I know what they had done to you.”

 

The sound of the ice was still.

 

“You had life inside you once, until men came and destroyed your home.” Daenerys remembered that dream as if she lived it. In many cases she did, so starkly real were the dreams. She could feel the arrows piercing the fort, know the shock of falling through the shattered floor. Daenerys could still feel the warmth against icy cold skin when the blood pumped out from between her legs, and the still form of a child slid from her in the snow. Daenerys closed her eyes. When she lost her own Rhaego she had been ill and never felt his life leave her.

 

‘They had no right. I am a queen.’

 

Daenerys’s eyes opened. She looked back at the other, who now sat still looking at her, lips unmoving. Yet she could hear her, like a translucent whisper. “So am I,” she answered. “And you must understand I have not been controlled by a man, not for a good while. I certainly will not allow you to control me.”

 

Ice blue eyes shimmered, losing none of their brilliance after millenia in darkness.

 

“If I can help you, you will release me.”

 

Pale white arms rose, presenting Daenerys with the dark steel. ‘Then free me. My children await.’

 

“I am not a fool. I will not allow both the Night’s King and Queen to rule the Long Night.”

 

‘We are not men. Not all of us want to rule. I can end this. I can take them all home.’

 

Daenerys looked back, then said, “Only dragons can melt Valyrian steel. Only Stark blood can harness the blood magic in the crypts.”

 

‘I waited until the ones who chained me died, and their children after them, those children’s children’s children until I no longer felt time. I can wait fifteen years until you bring me your child—a dragon and wolf—to break my chains and usher me out.’

 

Terror raced through her, but she did not make a sound.

 

“Daenerys,” came the quiet, urgent call. 

 

The fire outside danced. She waited until Jon made his way into the vault. When he did, he tossed the stitching yarn she had borrowed from his sister as a path marker, balled from his fist, onto the ground. He looked at her all over, then sighed. 

 

‘I can end this,’ Daenerys heard again.

 

Jon grimaced when he laid eyes on the other. Daenerys reached up a hand, then saw it was trembling. She closed her hand, and Jon grasped her elbow to assist her. “Tell me,” he whispered into her ear. “Let me be a part of it.”

 

Purple eyes glittered angrily when they turned to him. Daenerys bit out, “She expects our child to break her free—the blood of a dragon and a wolf can free her.”

 

Jon turned and slid Longclaw out of its scabbard at the same time. “It only needs me wielding my sword to kill a walker. Give me the word.”

 

“Jon,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. If what she said was true, she may be useful in the war to come. She cool his tense form under her palm, felt how he struggled to calm himself. He had such quick, strong emotions. Often Daenerys found him to be like her in some regard. She had her fiery Targaryen temper that Tyrion mentioned in reluctance. Perhaps he inherited it from his mother, because the Starks were cool as winter. “Have they gathered?”

 

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I had challenges writing and uploading while traveling. I am now back from London and should be able to update with better frequency.

Part 13

In this, as with many other matters, the queen knew to meet with her foremost men first of all. And so it was that she stood at the bailey alone, ensuring Jon would be out of sight. There was time for him later, when it was said and done. Her husband had stumbled, and so had she. With men as loyal as hers, her word was law, and better heard without the distraction of one who was to them as foreign as she was to the North.

If only her men could see.

Then again, were Jon not as noble as she knew he was, the distrust of her men would have kept her alive. Had Jon been any other man hungry for power and all the wealth that power entailed, then it would be too easy to wrest control from her, too easy to dispatch her, to easy to claim what was hers as his alone.

Soon her men would see.

From the corner of her eye she saw her hand, Lord Tyrion, dart towards the back of the line. The leaders selected by the Unsullied and the Dothraki stood proud before her now, awaiting her words. She looked up at her children circling the sky, brothers both of them, chasing each other as if playfully, hiding the truth that always Drogon and Rhaegal watched for threats in the horizon.

Before she looked back at her men she caught a glimpse of Lady Sansa and her sister standing between the turrets watching her. She lifted her chin, proud as she always was in addressing her men. She needed nothing to arm her, no scepter to hold, no whip to crack. Daenerys needed no crown. Not even the Iron Throne. These men of hers would fight to the death to save her or serve her, whichever she dictated.

This was a test of the strength of her word.

“I am your queen,” she said aloud. “Your men have chosen me. You believed in me.” The set faces and grim expression of her captains belied their faith in her. She continued, “I asked you to march with me, to go to war for me, to keep the peace with me. And this you have done. Had you ever felt indebted to me,” she stated, looking at the Unsullied, “you have paid it and you are free if you wish to leave.” 

It was imperceptible, but she could almost detect a hint of a wince in Grey Worm’s face. Since he had returned and found Missandei had, along with Lord Varys, left by the queen’s command, to take her freedom and make her way home. But what Missandei had done to prove her loyalty, Daenerys was certain Grey Worm would fight against, not until he was certain that Daenerys had all that she wanted.

In this land, for all that Grey Worm knew, it was to take the Seven Kingdoms.

Not one of the men chose to leave at her invitation.

Daenerys nodded in gratitude and acceptance of her duty to those faithful to her. Loudly, surely, deliberately, she cried, “I am still your queen, and the Lord Paramount of the North is not your chosen king.” Daenerys could see how Lady Sansa gripped the parapet, her knuckles white as she looked down below. She could see Sansa’s shoulders tense, her fear grow. She could feel her husband’s eyes on her. They had spoken at length about this, every word carefully chosen, the message clear between them.

The Dothraki kos nodded once. Several of them, who had gone with him to defend Karhold, knew how Jon fought. If there was anything that the horselords respected it was a fighter. In truth, had it not been to the attack in Winterfell Daenerys knew Jon would have returned a hero, a king who fought alongside his men. Certainly that was more than Daenerys could ever say about herself until very recently.

“You did not choose Jon Snow.” Daenerys turned to the gates, then gestured towards him. “I did.”

Grey Worm looked at Daenerys in surprise, and then she recognized the play of emotions in his face as he lowered his head in acceptance. The kos looked at Jon quizzically. Four or more of them, who had ridden with Khal Drogo or heard of his exploits, studied Jon closely.

With eyes that weighed him watching his every move, Jon took a deep breath and walked between the space that the men allowed until he was at the center of their formation.

“Lord Snow, should my men blindly trust you?” she challenged before them all.

Jon shook his head. “Never.”

“Do you expect my men to follow you?”

“Only for as long as you will allow them,” he answered.

Daenerys met the eyes of each of her men. Some were satisfied while many still seemed in doubt. She turned purple eyes back to her husband, and she could feel great warmth wash over her before she even formed the words in her mind. “Jon Snow will not ask you, but I will.” His gaze held hers, as if he recognized what she would surrender now. “I ask you to swear fealty to him, trusting that he will always put first the queen and the child she bears him.”

A prince or a princess who will inherit the Seven Kingdoms; one who will rule the Bay of Dragons; one to whom the horselords kneel. Her hand rested where the child slept. The gentle swell was ever more evident under her palm. She turned to her Unsullied.

“This one will follow Daenerys Stormborn, our chosen queen. If you say it, the Unsullied will.” Grey Worm pounded his weapon once. Behind him the leaders did the same. “Unsullied will follow Jon Snow.”

Jon released a breath of relief.

Daenerys turned to the Dothraki kos, who among them held together near a hundred thousand of her forces. She thrust our her chin, recognizing the stubbornness that disaffected a handful of the leaders. “Silak,” she challenged them, her followers, “your khaleesi has asked you to show your loyalty.”

Half of the kos nodded, bending a knee to Jon Snow. “San athchomari yeraan,” Daenerys said in thanks. Yet this was only half of her strength. Even before she turned she knew this was a choice. If until now in the months they had spent with Jon they still could not see him for what he was, she would have to choose—stand her ground or allow them the choice of riding behind her, but never sworn to her husband. 

Daenerys steeled herself as she turned to the other half of the kos, leaders to half of her khalasar.

“Anha efichisak haz yeroon!” one said in disagreement. In thick, barking Dothraki, he challenged her, “This one does not measure to Khal Drogo. He is half the man.”

“Drogo rides with Rhaego in the stars,” Daenerys bit back. Even while Jon could not understand her foreign tongue she was certain he heard the pain that rippled in her voice when she said their names.

“Once you were strong. No longer.”

Daenerys took a deep breath of the biting cold, recognizing that the weakness they had seen from her in these past weeks caused this exchange. The Dothraki followed a khal only until he can no longer ride. She learned it bitterly as Drogo wasted away from poison. She was learning it now, lest she forget, after they had seen her fall from Cersei’s assassin, after her crushing defeat and escape from the Night King, after her lost nights while in the thrall of the undead captive in the crypts.

And then she caught the flash of the dark steel, and realized that Jon had unsheathed his sword. “I may not understand your words, but I know when my wife is being insulted.”

“Wife?” The horselord turned to her, and repeated the recognizable if foreign word. “How do you marry a dog, khaleesi, after you had a great stallion to mount?”

This time, more weapons were drawn apart from Jon, who could not understand just what the man had said. No matter then, because while Jon could not understand most of the Unsullied leaders knew the Dothraki tongue, and the Dothraki faithful to her immediately reacted. Even most of those who did not immediately promise their service came to her defense.

“Anha vazhak yeraan thirat,” she gritted out. “Let you live if you leave today. Because you crossed the Narrow Sea for me, and would have served me.”

“We will still serve khaleesi, but not the dog.”

“No,” Daenerys said. “From this day, you are no longer in my khalasar. Form your own. Return to Essos if you wish.” She nodded to her loyal men, who formed a crescent to ward the men away. “You may take your horses and what men will follow you. I do not want them on my side in this war if they would rather choose you. Dothras chek.”

As the men started to walk away, she called out, “If I ever hear of you raiding my cities, in Westeros or in Essos, I will set my children after you.”

As the kos started calling for his warriors, Daenerys turned to Grey Worm. “How many?” Unspoken. But Grey Worm understood her.

“If he is lucky, thirty thousand. But he will be unlucky.” He nodded towards the kos who fought to convince more to join him. “The horselords love Daenerys Stormborn.”

“Love,” she said softly. She remembered the night that she emerged from the blazing hut, the awe on those faces upon seeing her still Unburned, the way they fell to their knees at the sight. “More fear.”

“Love or fear. It is the same.” Grey Worm glanced towards Jon. “They will stay with the queen. They will follow the king—“

“I am not a king.”

“They will follow Jon Snow, but the queen first of all.” 

Several hundred of the Dothraki warriors followed after the kos that she had pushed out. Daenerys watched as the men left the camp and started out into the snow. 

Jon nodded, and then walked towards Daenerys to stand before her. “I am sorry. It seems since we met you have lost one after another.”

Viserion. The near two thousand men who lost their lives protecting her in Winterfell. And now the Dothraki.

She shook her head, then reached out a hand to him. It was several heartbeats of uncertainty, when Jon simply looked at her proffered hand. And then he closed his hand around hers, and brought the gloved fingers to his lips. “I cannot take away from you as much as you cannot from me. I will respect the freedom of the North. You are not Lord Paramount, or Warden of the North. You are its king.”

“Daenerys, we need to unify the—“

“We unify the North with the rest of Westeros through marriage, which we have done. Now its time to let the kingdoms know.” With a small smile, she rested her hand on his cheek. “It may mean you will be required to wed me in the way of the Seven, in King’s Landing.”

He turned his head to kiss her palm. “We wed before the old gods. But I will marry you ten thousand times in ten thousand places. Let us wed in a sept in King’s Landing, in a Ghiscari pyramid in Essos, in the desert palaces down in Dorne. I will never be tired of marrying you.”

Daenerys looked up towards the parapet, at Lady Sansa, who waited anxiously. “My lady,” she called up. Oddly enough, the snow seemed to have stopped its incessant floating down to the ground. There was even a hint of warmth of her face, as if the sun was there reminding her of its presence. 

“Your grace,” Sansa answered. She gathered her skirts and made her way down to stand breathlessly before the queen and her brother.

“Will you ask Maester Wolkan to dispatch ravens to all that should know that the rightful queen has married the King in the North?”

“Shall the first raven be dispatched to King’s Landing?” Sansa could not hold the eagerness from her voice.

“Given that her army has not made it to Winterfell yet as she had promised, perhaps a raven would remind her. Afterwards, please ask the maester to visit me.”

“Are you all right?”

Daenerys smiled. “Of course. I would like the maester to see that the child grows stronger.”

The queen held onto Jon as they made their way from the bailey to the new keep. It was only when they were hidden from sight did she allow him to take the weight off her feet and take her to the chambers. As they passed in the corridors, she rested her head on his shoulder. When they passed by a serving maid, each maid averted her eyes. 

 

He helped her out of the rigid clothes that now were heavy from the cold wetness outside. As he pulled off each garment, Daenerys looked out the window. “It is starting to clear.” Jon glanced outside and frowned. “Where can he be?” she whispered.

Could he be gathering, she wondered, even more wights to overwhelm Winterfell?

“He is not gone,” he said. “It is but a calm before the storm. Soon the storm will come, and we need to be prepared for its destruction.”

A storm had brought her into Dragonstone, and she knew about the whispers in Westeros that she would bring the Dothraki horde and raze all of the Seven Kingdoms.

“The Night King will not succeed,” Daenerys said firmly. “We still have the queen captive down below. The dead will not win over the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” The words overwhelmed him, she knew. She could see it in his hesitation. But she gripped his hand and asked him to look at her. “I need you, Jon, like I have never needed any one man before.”

Because really, it was Viserys who needed her. He moulded her and tamed her, as if she were his pet. He needed her for what she could give him — the prospect of a marriage which would benefit his campaign for the Seven Kingdoms or a womb that would give him the pure line he so desperately knew would strengthen his claim.

Even Drogo she had never needed. When he wed her he had treated her first as a brood mare, and then even as he had grown to love her she had become the mother of a prophecy. 

“You are the most impressive woman I know.”

“They can see it,” she told him. “I am getting weaker in their eyes, whether my heart is as brave and strong as ever before. They had seen me bleed, and they had seen me fall. I need your strength beside me, because once they see my weakness the Dothraki will leave, and we will lose this war.” 

“I will never leave your side,” he swore.

“My army will be yours, Jon. You will be the king they choose,” she said firmly.

“I do not need them to be mine as long as they are yours, because you and I will never be on warring sides, Daenerys. There will never be a need for me to command your army without you.”

She smiled sadly, then leaned forward and placed a kiss on his lips. “Your grace, will you see if the maester is on his way?”

Jon made his way out the chamber doors and Daenerys leaned back on the bed. Outside she could see the bonfires in the camp, assuring her that her men were ever her vanguard against the enemies. Jon needed men as loyal as those outside for her. 

When Maester Wolkan shuffled into the chambers, Daenerys thanked Jon and asked him for some time alone for the maester to see to her. He gave her a puzzled look. “The maester will take good care of me, and the King of the Seven Kingdoms need to begin fortifications, because this is but the calm before the storm.”

He leaned down and kissed her before leaving. The door shut behind Jon as he walked outside. 

The maester sat on the bed beside her. His eyes were kind. She wondered how much of his family were destroyed by hers. “Your grace, if Lord Stark were still alive, he would be proud to know the next generation of his blood has arrived. Now to ensure the child comes healthy. How do you feel?”

The words were gentle, and she was unused to such in any other place where she found refuge. She definitely did not expect it in the North. The maester reached to touch her waist. Daenerys caught his wrist. “Maester, has my family injured you in any way?”

“It has been a long time, your grace, since that war. I learned with Maester Aemon Targaryen, and I know you were as much a victim of that war as I was.” At Daenerys’s uncertain look, the maester gestured. “May I?” She nodded, and the cool hands of the maester rested on her hips. With sure and nimble fingers he pressed, then moved to measure the swell the swell of her belly. “Near four moon turns now.”

“Three.”

The maester grunted. “The child is strong and large.” He looked up at her, then placed both hands on her hips. “And you are not. Is this why you called for me tonight, your grace? Do you have discomfort? Blood?” 

“No blood, no discomfort. I want you to help me bear a healthy child, maester. This is a miracle. I was not supposed to have another after my first son was stillborn.”

Maester Wolkan nodded. “I will help you, your grace, and you will bear this heir to inherit your kingdom.” And then, Daenerys was surprised when the maester patted her hand. “And we will ensure you have a safe childbirth.”

“I did not—“

“I know the look of anxiety on a new mother’s face, and I know your own mother died birthing you. There are stories too, that Ned Stark took his bastard home to Catelyn because Jon’s mother had died in childbirth too. Childbearing is dangerous like the Night King, and like the Night King we can prepare for it. I will see to your health, your grace, that you may bear many children to your husband.”

“Help me bear this one, and I will be forever in your debt, maester. My child will be born in a peaceful Westeros.” And then she would break the wheel.

When Jon returned to the chambers, she was soaking in steaming water in the claw footed tub. He seemed surprised to see her still awake, but gave a quick smile before pulling a seat to rest beside her. He dipped a hand in the water, found it too hot. “We had taken Ser Jaime’s suggestion and sent scouts in all directions. We need to know where the Night King is, know when we will expect him.”

She reached for him, so Jon knelt by the tub. Hot water spilled from the tub to the floor, darkening the knees of his trousers. Daenerys drew his hand into the hot water. His sleeve grew wet and the heat was painful to him, but he allowed her to rest his palm on her belly. “Maester Wolkan says your child grows large and healthy inside me. Your seed had quickened my dead womb.”

His gaze met hers, and he caught her lips with his and kissed her deeply. He rested his forehead on hers. “You have given me everything, Dany.”

Even the name she had long associated with the painful past, he had turned into a caress. “Come inside me tonight, your grace.” Slowly she moved his hand down, and Jon’s thumb brushed her lower lips. “Let us not miss another night together.”

Jon pulled himself up to his feet, and with two hands he helped her up to her feet. Her nipples puckered in the cool air. She reached for the drying cloth to cover herself. He helped her from the tub and guided her to the bed. She glanced back at him as he led her. “I want to see you. I want to see how your body has changed with our baby.” She had never been a wilting maid, comfortable with her naked body. Jon began to remove the drying cloth, Daenerys grabbed his wrists. “Your grace, let me see how much more beautiful you have become with our child inside you.”

She flushed as the cloth revealed every inch of her skin until he regarded her naked body fully. She stood before him under his heated gaze. His hands cupped the underside of her breasts. She gasped at the shock of his hot skin on her cool skin. She could feel her breasts grow heavy at his touch. “They have become fuller.” His thumbs traced the pinkish crowns that were rosier and darker than before.

His hands ran slowly down her sides and rested on her hips. And then he knelt before her. Daenerys’s lips parted and she released her breath with a sigh and his soft, warm lips pressed on her belly. He looked up at her. “My child is here, and its mother takes my breath away every day.” She buried her fingers in his thick hair. It was like he worshipped her, this king on his knees, the way he looked up at her with liquid eyes and those butterfly kisses he placed on the swell of her belly.

“Jon,” she said breathlessly, reminding her husband she was a woman still, “I need you.” And then she took control, pulling him to his feet and stepping backwards to sink into the bed. When she lay back, Jon climbed onto the bed and hovered above her. She sighed in pleasure at his warm body against hers. He kissed her eyelids, then trailed his lips down her neck to the valley between her breasts.

She moved her legs so she could cradle him between them. Her fingers worked on the fastening of his doublet. Finding them too difficult to work, Daenerys narrowed her eyes in frustration. Instead she reached down to free him. His hand joined hers as he guided himself. Daenerys gasped when he slid inside her channel in one long, smooth movement. 

And then he was pumping inside her, a rhythm that was as familiar to her as a home she never had since he came. His hands covered her breasts. His thumbs worked her sensitive nipples, and Daenerys moaned louder, the sensation coming at her on all fronts.

“I’ll love you forever.” His whispered vow was still hot against her ear when she peaked. 

A guttural cry escaped her throat when she melted under him, her fluids drenching him. His arms hooked underneath her knees. The movement caused him to drive deeper into her body. She was slick with her come, and Jon easily slid in and out of her. Unable to help herself, feeling the sensations again so soon after her release, Daenerys reached up against the headboard to brace herself. She cried out every time he pushed inside her.

It was painful and pleasurable all at once. Being with child had escalated her sensitivity such that when he entwined his fingers with hers on the headboard, and his other hand rested on her belly, Daenerys came hard again unexpectedly. When she got her bearing back, she could feel him thrust inside her jerkily, and then he shot hot seed inside her in spurts, coasting her inner walls, his mouth covering hers.

She gasped for breath, relishing the sensation of his spend in her. He fell on top her and her thighs splayed on the bed, strained. Daenerys wrapped her arms around him, placing a kiss on his shoulder. She could feel him turn his face and bury a kiss in the crook of her neck.

Finally he raised his body off of hers. She could feel the cold and the loss, and immediately rolled and buried herself into his side as he pulled her to him. While she was completely nude from her bath, he was still fully clothed, with his trousers merely loosened. “Dany, I want to ask you to sail to Dragonstone where you and the child will be safe from the others,” he said into the night.

She rested her arm over his chest, and tightened her embrace. “Will you?”

“I know better than to ask,” he told her. “So I will let you decide—with our child growing, the winter and the war will not be easy.”

“Not once in my life had anything ever been easy, but here I am.”

He rolled onto his side so he could face her. “But you are not alone anymore. You are a great queen, and now you have a king.”

She held his gaze, her hand resting on his face, her thumb brushing the scar on his cheek. Jon Snow was a fool if he thought she would leave him. “And now you have a queen. You do not fight alone anymore. Do not ask me to abandon you.” She closed her eyes, resting her cheek on his chest. “I know how it is to live without a father. As long as I can help it, my child will not be reared without a father’s protection. We will not abandon you.”

~o~o~

In the next month or two, Ser Jaime Lannister established his place in Jon Snow’s council as an able leader. Until the suspicious eye of the Stark sisters, Queen Cersei’s brother took a captain’s mantle to hone the meager number of Northmen still battling for Winterfell. After finding the Night King’s army scattered all over the North, too equally distant to each of the houses to beef up forces in any lone one, the council had made the decision not to call on the rest of the North.

Despite the reinstatement of their king, the North would wage their war in defense of the remaining houses, preventing as much as possible more of them being turned into wights upon defeat. It had been a much more difficult decision to Jon when the houses sought for men to help defend their ranks. Under threat, the North had pleaded for the foreigners to join them.

Two months of calm. Had they been new to this war they would have thought it over. Yet the longer it was the Night King made no move, the more fearful was his council. The longer he waited, the more he had time to prepare.

“The Targaryen host is here to defend the Targaryen. They must remain in Winterfell,” Lord Tyrion had argued then. “We learned the hard way. We mustn’t divide this army. It is stronger together.”

“We will send men,” Daenerys had decided then. “I came here to save the North, and if this is how we must do it, we will.” Before Ser Jaime could oppose, Daenerys added, “We are not talking about our misstep before. We know not to send everyone away and keep two thousand here. We will send enough men that the houses can defend themselves. We will keep the hub here with us. I know that it is in Winterfell that the Night King wants to begin this war.”

Until now she had not revealed to most what she had seen in the crypts. She had not been called since. Perhaps it was that the Night King had distanced himself. 

It rang true enough, when night fell once more and the snow began to fall. Jon and Daenerys were in their chambers when Ser Jaime called them to the castle walls. The queen held closed the white fur that had been her marriage cloak, while Jon Snow held her firmly by her elbow to ensure she did not slip as they climbed the steps. She had begun to show now, her dresses tight across her belly.

There was no even time to make new ones for her, even if Sansa would have wanted. Too much of the time had to be spent gathering grains for the store.

Jon and Daenerys looked out into the vast space and saw the darkening edges in the snow, when the Night King’s considerable army marched towards them. They had been waiting for more of the Targaryen host to leave for the other houses, but they had kept their defense well in hand. 

“From what I see,” Ser Jaime offered, “there are a hundred thousand of them against the sixty strong we have. Three men to every five wights.”

“If the men are ready to fight one to one, there are two dragons that can even the numbers,” Daenerys said. Jon’s hand tightened in fear, but he did not refute her.

“Your grace, you are with child.”

“It makes me doubly strong,” was her only answer. 

Because she would not allow him to ride alone. She called for Drogon and Rhaegal, and within minutes the two were astride their dragons. Jon looked back at Ser Jaime. “You have the ground. We will seek to even out the numbers.” 

He turned and saw Daenerys on Drogon flying over the Dothraki camp, rousing the horselords into a frenzy. She held low and tight, lining up against her dragon. The screaming warriors scattered wights, more easily penetrating into their crowd, slashing with their dragonglass treated arakhs. She trained her eyes at the line of wights, and Jon flew on Rhaegal towards the center.

“Dracarys,” he commanded, burning at least fifty. 

As dragonglass arrows flew through the air, felling any of the wights that escaped Rhaegal, he looked towards the burning fury that Drogon unleashed under the hand of Daenerys. Jon searched for the whitewalkers, knowing they were key to finally defeating the wights. When he spotted one towards the back of the line, he led Rhaegal towards him and cried out his command. When Rhaegal breathed dragonflame, at least a thousand of the wights fell at once with their maker.

Daenerys noticed the win, and turned her eyes on the other whitewalkers, leading Drogon towards a cluster of three. She could not see it, but he did from his vantage. The Night King trained an ice spear towards Daenerys and Drogon, and Jon screamed as loud as he could, drowned out by the fray as the rest of the Dothraki and the Unsullied poured into the melee. Drogon breathed out the searing flame and Jon and Rhaegal cut the path of the spear. The shrieking roar of the dragon under him pierced the battle noise, causing his mother to turn in fear.

What a sight it must have been, among the three thousand wights that fell by Drogon’s breath. Rhaegal flapped painfully, with Jon hanging on to the dragon as he hit the ground with a thud. Immediately Jon checked the wound on the dragon’s limb, grateful it was not life threatening, but severe enough that they were stranded at the center of enemy territory.

Just as he had feared, Daenerys and Drogon made their way straight towards him and his dragon. Rather than flee at the knowledge of further danger, his wife circled around him and burned the perimeter as stark warning not to come closer. She grasped her chest, the mark burning at her skin. She looked down at Jon and Rhaegal, knowing there way no way she could take them both. She extended her hand to Jon.

“You will not lose another dragon because of me!” He refused to take her hand, intending to fight off the wights from the other end, while Rhaegal was still able to defend himself by breathing fire.

She landed Drogon on the burning wights right by him, and Jon cursed when she became a near still target atop her dragon. It had been another thing as she flew over her enemies at the speed that Drogon flew—entirely another on the ground. 

Rhaegal spread his wings as if to test the pain, and Daenerys turned to her child and climbed down from Drogon. Between the two dragons she was at least protected from the weapons. She soothingly touched his wound. 

Around them, Jon could see how the wights started to turn towards him. Daenerys saw the wights like ants turn towards Winterfell. Her men were falling around her, and soon the wights would be upon Jon and Rhaegal, upon his family in the keep. She pulled open her cloak and then violently pulled down the collar of her dress. 

“Daenerys, what are you doing?”

She walked towards the wights and they parted to make room for her. From across the vast distance he swore that Daenerys met the Night King’s eyes. It was impossible, but the wights fell silent around them. Jon cursed and made a run towards Daenerys when the Night King made his way across the snow, through the wights, heading straight towards her. Wights turned and hissed at him, and Jon took Longclaw out and started hacking away, building his own path.

They were falling before him, but even as he stepped once he would take ten times back as the wights converged to bar him from crossing. “Dany!” he yelled across the snow.

She continued forward, and the Night King ate away at the distance until he stood toe to toe with her. She spoke, and from that distance and the wild, deafening beat of his heart he could not hear her. The Night King was wordless as he listened to her. Jon had wondered once if he spoke any language resembling that of men. 

She had no weapon in her hand, yet the Night King listened.

The blood of a dragon and a wolf. The powers of dragonsteel chained her, the Kings of Winter guarded her. The blood of a dragon and a wolf, said the Night Queen, and this would end.

The snow fell heavily now around them. Soon they would be covered.

Jon watched in horror as the Night King bent the knee.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

 

**Part 14**

 

The snow smelled like scorched flesh and bone. He stepped over corpses that smoked still, and he steeled himself at the soft muscle giving way under him. The feel of flesh told him these wights were turned from fresh bodies, and in this time and place it meant many of those that lay burning beneath his boot were Northmen killed in this most recent devastation brought about by the Night King as it swept through lands that he was protector of, king of. But who could truly stop now? Not he. Not while Daenerys still stood at the far end of the vast space before him, right where she stood defiantly and brought the Night King to his knees.

 

Even now the horselords were falling. Even now Northmen were being killed. Even now the Dothraki launched into attack. All men who served under her unaware of what she had done.

 

And that that rippling, echoing, shrill sound, as if an ethereal horn was blown. The wights stepped away from the fight as if the sea ebbing from the shore. The snow they darkened sparkled again under the sun. They sparkled like diamonds where it was fortunate, and bloody rubies where the living lost. As the whitewalkers fell away, so their wights followed.

 

His steps broke into a run when he saw the clear path. Still she stood as regal as if she were in the throne room at the capital, and he was certain it was a place she had never seen before. She stood as if she was a queen without dispute, stood as if she had not done the most foolish thing he knew he would ever before.

 

You did not bargain with the dead. You did not expect to reason with the Others.

 

When he neared her he called her name but she did not turn. Gasping for breath, he had stopped behind her and grasped her arm firmly and turned her to him. At the violent movement she glared at him, her purple eyes burning him.

 

“What did you do?” he demanded.

 

Her jaw set, and she looked down at where her flesh was white around his tight hold. Reluctantly, regretfully, he removed his hand and saw the marks of his fingers angry on her skin. His hands fisted at his sides.

 

“I told him what he needed to hear, what only I could give him.”

 

The blood of the dragon and the wolf, and he could feel the coldest rage rise from his chest to his neck, the freezing pain that bolted in his forehead. “You told him our child will release his queen,” he whispered upon realization. When she did not answer, he stepped forward, bringing his face the closest to hers it had been without intending a kiss. Far from it. He was almost afraid of the spite that frosted in his chest. “What right do you think you have to make that decision without me?”

 

Still she was defiant. He pitied the man that would ever stand between her will and her goal. This time, it seemed to be him. Were it possible, she thrust her face even closer, holding his eyes. Her eyes were brilliant. “You know nothing!” she spat out. “You were going to die!” Her voice broke, and it was then he noticed that her fury was fear, and her fear was love. “Rhaegal was going to die. Look around you. Everyone was going to fall. They had nothing to lose, and I did!”

 

His eyes narrowed. For the first time in a long while, he saw her. Daenerys Stormborn. With all the titles in the world crammed at the end of her name. Standing before him was that Daenerys Stormborn, and to her it did not matter what part he had in this.

 

And rightly he knew it was exhaustion from the fight, fear of losing everything he loved, and panic from this new threat that fueled his bitterness. But that stubborn pride she carried now stuck at him, told him loudly, a silent scream, that he was still not her equal to her in every way.

 

No matter that she loved him. No matter that she made him king.

 

Because everything would still be her decision.

 

“You say we are an alliance. We need to be equals. I had no problem bending the knee to you as my queen—“ At her withering look, he added, “—once I saw who you truly are. But this is not about the Seven Kingdoms, Daenerys. I am your husband and I have a right to decide the fate of my child.”

 

“There would not be a child if I did not do what I did!”

 

“You are delaying the inevitable, bringing this threat from our generation to our child’s.”

 

He dreamed of a better world for the child—son or daughter, silver haired like a Targaryen or dark like a Stark. He had dreamed that everything he fought for and lost in this life were seeds that his child would harvest in the future.

 

Daenerys started back on the long walk towards the castle. Even in his anger he fell into step beside her. “You speak as if I want this for my child. Only a dragonwolf can break the chains and free her from the blood magic. Valyrian chains and Stark blood. What choice do I have?”

 

I.

 

_I._

 

“Now they are gone, and we will fight another day. If we find a way to end this now, we will. We have years before the child can wield a sword to break her chains. Until then, I will find a way.”

 

Did she truly trust that the Night King would hide away in the winterlands beyond the wall until then? She was younger than he, but Jon had never thought Daenerys Stormborn naive.

 

“I am not like all these other men. I am in love with you, but I am not your mere servant. Will you listen to me?” His voice raised in frustration, and he could almost hear her flinch. Her hand reached up to touch where the marks of his fingers had since faded.

 

“No man has controlled me since Viserys or Drogo—and even their control did not last long. I will not be commanded by any man, Jon. I am a queen.”

 

Fuck.

 

She was the one who decided by herself to seal his child’s fate with a burden, as if prophecies were grand and celebrated, and not a fucking cursed scar on tomorrow. She was cursing her own child. His child. A child he had accepted he would never have when he swore his oath to the Night’s Watch, a child he had known would never come when he fell in love with a barren queen.

 

And now he was her blasted brother who abused her, the damned husband who raped her.

 

Fuck it.

 

“If you are so unwilling to give me a voice, Daenerys, consider if you are a queen or you are part of this marriage.”

 

Jon knew she did not intend it, that the gesture was involuntary, but still it pained his eyes to see. Her thumb still brushed the arm he had held fast as if the pain were fresh. He looked up at the sky, searching for Drogon and Rhaegal. The walk would be too long, and as exasperating as the woman was, she was still his—hardheaded and arrogant enough to have survived crossing Essos to come home.

 

“Are you saying what I hear you saying, Jon?” she demanded.

 

He answered wearily, wanting the stupid fight to end. There were times when he heard his father fight with Catelyn, and Ned Stark’s temperament leant itself to humility enough that the disagreement would end quickly enough. “You will decide for yourself either way, your grace.”

 

At his use of the title, he noticed Daenerys stiffen.

 

“There is no need to continue this discussion.”

 

“I will not be questioned.”

 

“Then you should have kept me your subject instead of your husband.”

 

She stalked past him on the way to the castle, and both of them paused at the sight of their men beginning to gather the dead once more. He caught sight of her when she surreptitiously wiped at her eyes. Jon took a deep breath, then released it.

 

Ned Stark’s blood still ran through his veins, even if a large part of him was temperamental which he likely owed to his mother. He was married to Daenerys Stormborn, with all the titles that came at the end of her name, each title a story of all that she had suffered and achieved. The old gods blessed him to be where and what he was now. It entailed patience; it entailed humility; it entailed understanding. All those love could bring, and love he had plenty.

 

Countless times now Jon had stood before burning pyres. It was how they freed their brothers in the watch from their oaths. It was the way he gave Ygritte the goodbye she deserved from him. On his return the pyres burned well and long into the night when the eighteen hundred who perished from defending Winterfell were given their rites.

 

That day the pyres burned away from camp. Ash was ash, and the men chose to burn the bodies of the fighters near where they fell. Jon would set up a stone there, or any marker to commemorate. 

 

The flames raged, and he knew so did she. Outside Winterfell’s walls Dothraki and Unsullied had fallen side by side, much in the way they had sailed for her. Inside the bailey pyres were lit for the fallen men of the North. Jon would be expected to preside as king, but instead he sent Ser Davos inside with an ask for Sansa. He turned to Daenerys, who stood before the pyres of her own men with her eyes closed. 

 

Jon drew closer to her, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. She flinched at the unexpected touch, then her body curved into his. “I will never place my child in harm’s way,” she said to him, arguing still, her voice soft.

 

Allied by marriage, but the Targaryen host and the Northmen were two separate worlds still.

 

When the fire grew cold, she pulled away from his hold and walked back towards the castle.

 

~o~o~

 

Sparring with Ser Jaime Lannister was bleak. Jon said so himself as the Kingslayer’s sword clattered to the ground. “Thank your gods you have honed your skills in strategy, Ser Jaime, else you would have done nobody good. And then they’ll get rid of you.”

 

Jaime chuckled half heartedly. He picked up his sword again and thrust. “And thank your gods for pretty hair, your grace, else Daenerys Stormborn would have none of you.”

 

“I was King in the North before I even met Daenerys,” Jon pointed out. With a swift flick of his wrist, Jon hit Jaime’s sword hard and it flew from his hand. “You have seen me work at what I know.”

 

Jaime nodded and eased out of the way. Jon looked back out to find another sparring partner. Lady Brienne stepped in and provide to be more challenging than Ser Jaime. 

 

“My lord, when King Renly had much pent up frustration he would share his pain during practice,” Brienne related. “It eases one’s mind. I can offer an ear.”

 

Their swords glinted dully as they clashed—Valyrian steel against another. He lunged and fended off an attack from Brienne. Jon noted that the lady was a true knight. She seemed as skilled as he. The sparring drew long and soon the audience had gone except for Arya, who seemed truly interested to watch and learn from the fight. 

 

Ghost padded over to him, and Jon nudged him to make way left he trip over his direwolf. At the nudge, Ghost growled low in his throat.

“Tell me, my lady,” he gasped out, “did Renly Baratheon respect you?”

 

Brienne bent low to avoid a thrust, then lifted her sword and drove it down. Jon held her back with a firm push with Longclaw. “Renly respected everyone. He hung onto his queen’s words, and even listened to her brother.”

 

It did not escape Jon that there were stories of Renly and Loras and buggering, and did not think it wise to raise then. “And had he made his decisions all by himself—“

 

“It would not have happened,” Lady Brienne answered. “Say of them what you will, but the brothers Baratheon always listened. They may be stubborn for a time, but they value the words of those they trust.” Brienne circled around Jon with her sword brandished. “Robert had Jon Arryn, and then your father. Renly had Queen Margaery and Ser Loras. Even fucking Stannis had his red priestess and your own Davos.” She eyed him keenly. “Is something the matter, your grace?”

 

“And if Sansa had a husband,” he pressed, “and she preferred not to take his council, because Lady Sansa knows the North, and knows what is best for the North?”

 

Lady Brienne paused, and then sheathed her sword. “Then her husband should annul the marriage.” Jon looked up in surprise. “It is not unheard of.”

 

Not one respectable person he knew had annulled a marriage. A marriage sworn to the old gods was stronger than laws would allow.

 

His direwolf now circled him, much more threatening now than Lady Brienne.

 

He was married to Daenerys Stormborn. He was mad if he would ever think it. It was akin to thrusting his blade into his own heart.

 

“If she is a stubborn wife, her husband should leave her, and he would be right,” Lady Brienne finished.

 

Jon stopped and frowned at Lady Brienne. The lady knight then broke into a grin, and Arya laughed. Jon cursed, then set Longclaw aside and made his way to the keep.

 

He shook his head clear of his throughts as he made his way to the keep. Jon ran down the corridors, stopping for no one, moving part servants who walked too slowly for him. Finally he stood outside her chamber doors and knocked. There was a no answer. 

 

He willed his patience to return. Harder and stronger he knocked.

 

“Daenerys, open the door,” he said. 

 

Knocking harder, the door under his knuckles swung open. Jon stepped inside and found it empty. He turned and searched for her in the keep. When he could not find her, Jon scoured the godswood to no avail. He went to the council room and found only Lord Tyrion.

 

“Your grace, I must speak with you and the queen,” Lord Tyrion said at the sight of Jon.

 

Jon turned on his heel. His heart was pounding and it was deafening in his ears. His jaw set, Jon made his way down and down and down the endless flight of stairs leading to that most secluded. When he slid into the space of the crumbling wall, all he could see was the ghostly figure that remained in the corner, still watching him with those moon eyes.

 

When he emerged from the crypts, he looked up at the keep. He strode back inside and returned to her chambers. Immediately he proceeded to the chest at the foot of the bed, then threw it open.

 

Empty.

 

Jon turned to the small table that held her mirror, then placed a hand on the small dainty box. He unhooked the lock and looked inside. Gone were the pins she wore on her dress. There were no three headed dragons there.

 

Sansa appeared at the door. “Ser Davos said you have been scouring the castle. What is it, Jon?”

 

He closed the small box quietly. And then he looked up at his sister. “She left,” he rasped out. 

 

“What?” she asked in surprise, such that her voice hitched with a disbelieving chuckle.

 

Daenerys had made her choice. 

 

He looked down at the dainty box, and then threw it against the mirror, shattering it. Sansa jumped in shock. Jon turned over the chest. “Do you believe me now?”

 

Sansa jerked her head in acknowledgment. Uncertainly she stepped into the room. “She left her wedding cloak,” she whispered, spotting the white fur on the floor. Sansa picked it up. 

 

His hands grew cold, even as if cold did not affect one of Stark blood. The stain of the white was so evident. “Sansa—“

 

She looked at the mark closely and sighed in relief. “Only wine, thank the gods.” Her eyes went back to the corner where she found the fur. 

 

Jon spotted the cup that had rolled against the wall. He took the cup that had spilled the wine. Jon looked inside and froze. He reached two fingers in, then wiped the side of the cup. He looked down and found the dark powder that still remained.

 

His hand closed around the cup. Jon walked out of the keep until he was outside Winterfell’s walls. Beside him, Ghost ran. Jon reached for the comfort of the animal’s fur. Sansa tried to catch up to him, to call to him, but Jon’s determined stride proved too fast for her. Ser Jorah and Ser Jaime followed him to the Targaryen camp.

 

At the side of the camp Rhaegal rested to recover from his injuries. Behind him, Ser Jorah said, “If you will address them, be a dragonrider.” 

 

Jon climbed onto Rhaegal and comforted him on his wound. The dragon flew to settle onto the snow where they could best address and be seen. At his arrival, the Dothraki and Unsullied looked up. 

 

“Dothraki, Unsullied!” he called as loud as he could. His entire body was burning, his blood pumping hard in his veins. Jon realized he still held firmly to the cup in his hand. When the men looked up at Jon, he threw the cup on the ground between them. “Our queen has been taken. I will find out who took my wife, and once I know I will march to their castle and raze their villages. I will salt their earth so only the undead would remain there!”

 

At the words, the Dothraki kos that doubted him stepped forward and gave a cry.

 

To come into his own home and take his wife.

 

“For every hair on her head out of place I will put up a head on a spike!” he swore, biting out the words. “For every hour she is gone I will destroy them. Are you with me?”

 

The Dothraki gave another loud cry, then raised their arakhs and swore.

 

He looked out into the horizon. “Where are you?”

 

tbc


	15. Chapter 15

Part 15

Did he truly think he knew better? 

She was Daenerys Stormborn, and she was a queen in her own right. No one, not even Jon Snow, could say that he had built an army a hundred thousand strong from nothing. But she did, only she—Daenerys Targaryen, a third child, a woman even, an orphaned princess, a bartered bride and a widowed khaleesi with nothing to her but a name and a hungry horde behind her. Daenerys emerged from the sweltering desert lands and became a force.

Just because he was more honorable, more faithful, more noble because of his heart that tore each time men fell. Just because he did not take the ruthless steps it took her to reach this point.

She could remember his face as they fought, out there in the snow. She remembered his eyes flashing fire, a reflection of the wreckage around them, a mirror into his anger. She remembered the grip he had on her, a touch harsh such as the ones she swore to herself she would never feel again.

Daenerys had never seen it in Jon before.

It was almost she as if she woke a dragon.

Daenerys pushed inside the room and stopped at the surprise before her. At the sight the fury washed away and she broke into a smile. “Missandei!”

Her Handmaiden looked up at the queen and smiled as well, setting aside clothes she meticulously set in a pile atop the bed. “Your grace,” was her return.

Daenerys rushed to her side with a furrowed brow. “Had something gone wrong, Missandei? You should be traveling to Naath by now.” She had entrusted Missandei to one who swore loyalty to her, to ensure her Handmaiden would be free and taken care of until she reached her destination. “And Lord Varys… I had not seen him.”

“No, your grace. Nothing has gone wrong.” Missandei turned towards the window and poured wine for the queen. “You look cold. Here is something to warm you.” With a soft smile she walked over to Daenerys and handed her the cup. “Lord Varys and I had heard that many were killed in the attack. We could not continue on our journey—not when we were worried about you.”

Daenerys took the cup and sipped. “And about Grey Worm,” Daenerys opened. “He is alive.” The wine was so rich it blanketed her mouth and tongue with the heady flavor she first struggled to place. She looked down into her cup, and quizzically up at Missandei. “It looks like the sweet red of Lys but tastes like the pale amber in Pentos.” Daenerys sniffed the heady aroma of the fine wine. 

“Lord Varys wanted you to give you some taste of home,” Missandei replied. Never mind that Daenerys had never thought of Pentos as home, but as a temporary stop. “Do you like it, your grace?”

Daenerys sighed. When Missandei brought forward the bottle, Daenerys offered her cup to be filled. “It makes me remember the Free Cities, and what it was like before this burden was thrust upon me.”

“Was it simpler, your grace? To be the sister, or the wife, instead of the queen that commands the army?”

Daenerys licked her lips. “It was miserable,” she answered. She took a long sip of the wine and allowed it to remain upon her tongue. “I was never born to fade away.” She looked over to Missandei, and reached out to her maid when she grew faint and dizzy. As she stumbled her fingers weakened and the cup fell onto her, spilling wine on her lovely bridescloak. 

Missandei gently led her to the bed and helped her lay back. “Your grace, it must be the child.”

The dragonwolf inside her. It had been too long since the babe had made her ill. Missandei loosened the fastening of her cloak and set it aside, and the fur fell to the floor. Daenerys watched it fall. Slowly. Too slowly. She turned her haze gaze up towards her Handmaiden. “Will you call the maester for me, Missandei?”

“You need to rest, your grace.”

“Call the maester,” Daenerys repeated, wanting her voice to be firm but hating that it sounded weak. “Please.”

Reluctantly, Missandei left the chambers. Daenerys pulled herself up from the bed, holding on to keep herself from falling. She looked back cautiously towards the door, her vision swimming. She fell to her knees on the floor and took the cup. Her breath released forcefully when she saw the bottom of the cup, telling her immediately how the Penthoshi wine could seem so unnaturally rich crimson.

The edges of her vision darkened, but Daenerys swore she would not be a still target. Not anymore.

She pulled herself up, dragging the sheets from the bed as she did. Daenerys pushed herself up to brace herself against the warm walls. Gingerly she made her way out of the room and to the corridor. The world was growing dark around her, and she needed to find her husband.

And then the earth fell away from under her feet.

“Your grace,” she could hear her soft voice say, “let me help you.”

~o~o~

In the small space of that carriage, alternating between sleep and looking out from the curtained window as the world fell into darkness and woke to light, Daenerys had lost track of the days and weeks she traveled. She let the curtain fall to cover the window and leaned back on the plush, cushioned seat. At least her captors decided to make this prison a little more comfortable for her. It did not make sense to look out the window. Daenerys had never cross Westeros before. There was nothing she would see out there that she would recognize.

At least she knew she was still Westeros. Unless she cross the Narrow Sea, she needed to be assured that Jon could still find her.

The carriage slowed, by rote now. The door opened and another strange man bedecked in too much gold for riding placed a heap of food before her. Daenerys glared at the offering until the man shut the door again.

She had tried to starve herself in opposition to her capture. It did not last long. Her stomach growled and the insistent dragonwolf let his or her presence be known. 

The first time she woke inside the carriage MIssandei had been seated across from her. When her Handmaiden noticed her waking, Missandei had taken her hands and asked her if she was hurt. Daenerys began to answer her maid’s concern until memory of her painful betrayal washed over her. She pulled her hands away.

“Your grace, you must believe me. I only did what I thought was best for you.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed. This was her most trusted. This was her friend. When the enemies came, her first thought was to send Missandei to safety. Her voice steely, she said, “And who do you think you are that you would know what is best for me?”

“Your grace—“

“Get away from me, Missandei,” Daenerys told her maid. Missandei winced at the harsh command. “Take me where you will, but I do not want to see you.”

And still her Handmaiden persisted. She brought her food and wine, and shrugged it off when Daenerys asked her if it was poisoned this time. When Daenerys insisted on going down to wash herself, Missandei was gentle when she pinned a head scarf to hide her Targaryen hair. And then when she needed to change, Missandei brought out for her Daenerys’s own dress.

“Because you need to wear your own gowns,” she told Daenerys, “queen’s gowns, and not common clothes.”

Daenerys had bitterly taken it and put it on, and remembered afterwards they were ones she wore when Jon Snow first arrived in Dragonstone. And she was comforted, but she did not thank her maid.

Weeks later the road seemed familiar to her, though she was certain she had not been there before. Daenerys peered out the window to see the paved roadway leading up. She recognized the cityscape from stories that Viserys had told her. Daenerys held her breath at the outline of the Red Keep marking the skyline.

The last time she had been here she had flown on her dragon with men loyal to her already awaiting her. This time she returned a prisoner. Even as Cersei had sent an assassin to kill her in Winterfell, Daenerys had never thought the queen would be so bold that she would actually take her by force.

When the carriage rolled in to the castle complex, Daenerys allowed the curtain to fall. She sat back in her seat and laid a hand on her swollen belly. The child was growing, larger and stronger than expected, just as the maester had told her. Idly she wondered how it was that her clothes still fit, and thought bitterly whether Missandei thought letting out her dresses somehow made up for her treachery. She shook her head, preparing herself for the cocky attitude that Cersei Lannister would most likely greet her with.

The little dragonwolf was undeniable now, too conspicuous, too much of a presence that she could not even seek to hide it for protection. The door opened again, and Daenerys raised her chin. She would not cower nor show her fear. If Cersei sees even a twinge of discomfort she would already win. A stumble, a mistake from Daenerys on the first day she set foot in this keep which was rightly hers would make her smaller in all eyes.

“Come, little wolf,” she whispered to the child, “see all that is yours.”

Missandei stood outside the carriage holding up one of Daenerys’s older cloaks, one she had not used in Winterfell because the cold lent itself to her fur bridescloak. For the first time since she was taken Daenerys was grateful to Missandei. It was one of her Dragonstone cloaks, and thus it immediately wrapped her with an intent to battle.

It was the cloak she wore when she ripped apart the Lannister army on the field, the one she wore when the Tarly soldiers knelt the day that their lords burned alive. Daenerys turned around and allowed Missandei to drape it over her shoulders. MIssandei stepped in front of Daenerys and tugged the cloak closed, covering her belly. Silently, Missandei took the three headed dragon pin from her pocket and fastened it prominently to the front of her cloak.

All these Missandei had taken with the small band of men that traveled with them.

Daenerys looked up at the mounted men that had been her guards—captors really—from Winterfell to King’s Landing. She had only ever seen one of them, a brute quiet man in golden armor. In the darkness of the carriage she thought the armor painted gold, crude and loud. Out here under the sun, in the small light snowfall in the capital, Daenerys recognized the armor dipped in real gold.

She looked up at the waving banners held atop the high spears of the dozen men around her. Plain gold flags, without sigil, without a symbol. There was nothing to them but their gold. The men dismounted from their horses, and Daenerys could see as they moved the gleaming hilts of their swords, sure to put Rhaegar’s rubies to shame. Fine inlaid details were carved into the breastplates, none the same, each armor unique to every man.

Daenerys had known that Cersei had bought their service—these rented lords who fancied themselves descendants of exiled nobles yet truly they were sellswords. Daario took pride in that image—sellsword, mercenary, a man who looked out only for himself until he gave his service to his queen. The Golden Company abhorred the word, as if they were in Westeros for the honorable reason of repatriation, as if their gold and jewels did not make obvious that they were for wealth and yes, maybe lands.

Perhaps Cersei thought to cut little pieces of the Seven Kingdoms and allot to these ten thousand she had now.

She looked up to the entrance of the Red Keep. Daenerys kept her head up as she ascended and made her way through the giant pillars on the way to the Great Hall. This was hers, stolen by usurpers but soon would be in her hands once more. And then there was the Spider standing there, blocking her view of the Iron Throne. 

“And where is your queen?” Daenerys asked pointedly.

Lord Varys, with a smile and a bow, declared, “Here you are, your grace.”

Daenerys’s lips thinned. “Cease these lies from your mouth. Where is the queen you serve? Where is my captor Cersei Lannister?”

Around her, Daenerys noticed the shadows move. Surrounding the Great Hall, Daenerys saw no whitecloak or goldcloak. Instead, real golden armor gleamed. There were no Queensguard or Cityguard in sight. All around her it was only the Golden Company.

“Your grace,” Lord Varys began. “I have not lied to you. I told you I want to serve a noble ruler. That has not changed.”

A noble ruler were words that would shatter at being uttered in Cersei’s throne room. She had heard the rumors, been deceived by the usurper queen herself. “You are a traitor,” Daenerys condemned Varys. “You were a traitor then to my family, and you are traitor still. To think I forgave you, gave you a second chance,” she uttered under her breath.

“Soon you will understand, your grace.”

Lord Varys walked towards Daenerys, and as he moved she saw the imposing throne that had been obscured by him. She knew its image, imagined the feel of the smelted swords under her. She was close now to the very tool she had sailed for. “And when is this soon, Lord Varys? From where I stand you and someone I thought was a friend betrayed me.”

How she wished Jon were here now.

Perhaps he had thought she ran away and abandoned him. Her possessions were gone, and they had just fought. If he did not, he would have chased them. Twelve mercenaries and two women, one in a carriage, would be slow to travel against Jon on horse or even Rhaegal.

He had thought she doubted her choice to marry him, and she had thrown her birthright at him more than once. He had every right to suspect she had left. In fact had every right to set her aside. Her hand underneath the cloak covered her belly. She had to believe that even if he would set her aside, Jon would have come after her if only for his heir. After all, she had left him a king and an army.

She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on the path before her as Lord Varys led her to the steps. Her eyes grew wide as they walked towards the sept, and Daenerys saw the stately tall building behind it. She swallowed at the height of the tower, seeing as they drew closer the make and style. “The Maidenvault.” Once Ser Barrister had spoken about it. It was a prison built by the king to imprison his sisters. There were times that Viserys spoke of it with longing, especially when he felt Daenerys was unwieldy.

“It has not been used as a prison for a long time, your grace. This was Queen Margaery’s house. King Tommen ensured it would be fitting for his bride.”

In King’s Landing, in Westeros, she was feared. And so now she would sleep in a bed furnished for someone dead and gone, the sweet and beloved queen, of whom Olenna spoke of so fondly—a queen that people loved. 

Lord Varys climbed the tower with Daenerys, and when they reached the chamber prison she saw again Missandei, the wretched girl who still pretended as if she cared, setting the once abandoned room to right for her queen. Lord Varys looked to her a fulfilled man, as if years of work had come to fruition. “I hope you will not forget me, your grace, when you ascend to the throne with the very best claim anyone had ever had to the Seven Kingdoms.”

When Varys offered to take her cloak, Missandei stepped forward and motioned for the door. “Lord Varys, the queen has had a long journey. Will you give us time?”

Varys regarded Missandei long, and then he nodded. “Come nightfall,” he told the Handmaiden, “and no later.” Missandei nodded. “Come where the shattered dragons lie sleeping.”

Lord Varys left her chambers. A while later Daenerys looked down from the window as Lord Varys emerged onto the grounds. There was a small party of the sellswords down below, positioned close to the Maidenvault and some distance from the rest of their company. Guards, she noted. Of course, she was not a prisoner, but there was conveniently close by a group who would guard the coming and going in the queen’s house.

There was one that watched her closely, right there at the center of them all. His eyes were shadowed, covered by hair tinged with blue and silver.

A raven. A raven to Winterfell. 

“I need a maester,” she told her Handmaiden.

“There is no maester here, my queen.”

Only a maester could dispatch a raven for her. Daenerys said, “I am with child! Having no maester attending to me is not acceptable, Missandei. Tell Cersei I demand a maester.”

Missandei blinked sadly. “Come with me, your grace.”

“Come with you? I am a prisoner.”

“You are not a prisoner. I would never willingly participate in a plan to capture you, your grace,” Missandei insisted. Yet she handed her the wine, spirited her away with the help of these mercenaries. “We have until nightfall, and I will show you.”

Daenerys followed her Handmaiden out of the tower. To her surprise the door gave easily. As she and Missandei walked she steeled herself in anticipation of being asked to return to the Maidenvault. Yet there was no demand. The man who watched her closely from earlier still looked at them from afar. She could see the appreciation of the others. Her maid was a beautiful young woman. Of all of them, only one pair of eyes never left Daenerys. 

And then he left. It was abrupt and Daenerys released a breath. His shaded eyes were unsettling to her, almost unnatural. 

And then Missandei was leading her down to the dungeons of the Red Keep. At least in Winterfell, she thought, only the dead lived under the ground. Daenerys shuddered at the thought of her own ancestors building these cells to house those that they believed were against them.

Missandei took Daenerys to stand before a cell on the first level of the dungeon, where it was yet brighter and adorned with small high windows. Inside was the old man, the master of whispers of King’s Landing, and the only man trained as a maester left. The old man stared out, unseeing.

“Daenerys Targaryen,” drawled the female voice, long and taunting. Daenerys started, and she peered closer and realized who it was held inside. Only one woman would refuse to call her queen and mock her name. “How are my baby brothers, who had come sniffing after the younger queen that had come their way?”

Daenerys stepped closer and studied Cersei Lannister. “They are at home in Winterfell, where men and women listen and respect their strength and mind. The King in the North takes their counsel.”

Cersei smirked. “The King in the North,” she repeated. “That is a surprise. I am certain you have not surrendered your claim.” The queen, even in her cell, sounded so sure of herself. 

“No,” Daenerys answered. 

“Then why is he king, and why are you here?”

Daenerys smiled. “Why would you think I owe you an answer?”

She had been taken from her home and thrust into the center of a keep that was swarming with mercenaries who were not sworn to her, yet for the first time she felt a victory. Daenerys left the dungeons with Missandei. Cersei had turned her back on her commitment to help with the war up north, and it seemed that the sellswords she had bought turned against her.

When they emerged from the dungeon, Daenerys saw the small group of men in gold gathered close by.

“How long do I have until nightfall?” she asked, looking up at the slightly dark sky.

“Not long, my queen.”

“And where is it that the shattered dragons lie?”

Missandei gestured towards the dungeons where Cersei was imprisoned. “About three more levels lower than where Cersei Lannister is held.”

“No,” Daenerys proclaimed.

She could feel curious eyes turn to her, even from the men who watched close by.

“No, your grace?”

Daenerys nodded. “I will not be brought to the dungeons again; I will not walk down four flights of steps and back up again. Men were sent to take me from Winterfell. Whoever it is has need of me,” Daenerys stated. “No, I will not go out of my way. If the Maidenvault is my tower, then whoever needs me should pay his respects to the queen in the queen’s tower.” She turned to the Handmaiden. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, my queen.”

Daenerys headed back towards the Maidenvault, and then looked back towards Missandei who had stayed behind to relay her demand to Lord Varys. She was tired, and she wanted peace tonight. Whether or not she found out why she was taken, at least for now she knew Cersei was locked away. One night of sleep. “Whoever comes to see me tonight, tell them I have had enough of the tasteless bread and gruel of the journey. I will only give audience if they offer venison, lemon cake and candied almonds.” Daenerys paused. “And I want some dusk rose tea.”

“Your grace, dusk rose only grows around the Bay of Dragons.”

Daenerys gave a small smile. “You managed to bring Pentoshi wine to Winterfell, and a queen from Winterfell to King’s Landing. When you have dusk rose from Essos and bring it to a boil for my tea, I will take an audience.”

She turned around and made her way back to her tower. And now, how to send a raven to her husband.

tbc


	16. Chapter 16

Part 16

Barely had he had sleep or rest in the past weeks. Too many battles to fight, too many people to fight for. He had become, in the space of mere months, the good son of the North more than Robb ever had been. Whereas Robb had gathered the fighting Northmen against the other kings of Westeros, Jon had come with blood of foreign warriors to spill in defense of the North. 

His hands were tented under his chin, the steepled thumbs pressed against the chest plate he wore each day now. The King in the North looked into the dancing fire in the hearth and the chatter around him faded. All they had ever said and were about to, he had already heard. 

Jon’s view turned from the fires until he could see the white powder of the snow before him. His paws buried in the cold. The wind outside, brisk and cutting, brought to him the faint scent of burned flesh. Jon, in his direwolf’s body, broke into a run towards the source and found the bodies littered like so much refuse. He padded his way forward, towards their faces. He did not recoil from unseeing eyes. One did not have a gut too soft to look at the dead. Not when you were raised by Ned Stark. 

Like the Lord of Winterfell told his sons—those who served the sentence must execute it.

So it was the case now, Jon thought, as he looked into the clouded eyes of men he recognized when he passed through the endless lines of the Targaryen host. The men were one of the twelve groups that had been dispatched across Winterfell, to track Daenerys or the Night King, or even both. The command was sentence that Jon himself have givem, though they were more than eager to oblige in service to their queen. 

It seemed, he thought, as his wolf explored the camp, that the enemies had happened upon the group in the night. While the camp hunkered down to take their meal and turns in sleeping, they were attacked.

Wolf ears perked at the rustling sound. He caught the whiff of fresh blood. He turned and saw a movement against the plain white ground. And then he saw the fearful, pained gaze of a man almost gone. A spear had gone through his chest and the gash across his neck just missed the vein. This far from Winterfell and as close to death as he was, there was no saving him.

He steeled himself from regret, and then clamped down long sharp fangs into the dying man’s gullet. He heard the gurgle and the cry of pain, fought back the thrill of warm blood pumping into his throat. As the lifeblood waned, and the man stilled, he loosened his bite and allowed the body to fall with a thud.

The Hand of the King cleared his throat.

Whenever Ser Davos saw him staring into the flames just so, the old knight fretted. Jon ignored the effort to take him out of his reverie. Ser Davos did not know that many Stark children were born with the ability to warg into their direwolves. It was not as if Jon saw the truth of all the world in those flames, or heard the voice of the Lord of Light. In fact, the fires helped him find silence, as if the burning flames could raze their voices and he could find some peace.

He remembered flames even greater, more monstrous and effective, that last day he saw his wife. Atop the dragons they had each ravaged the enemies. She had burned a perimeter around him and the fallen Rhaegal, created a barrier to keep away the wights.

Dragonfire blazed hot and fiery like the tempers that escalated, devastating like the words they hurled at each other.

Out in the cold when they burned each other. Only dragons can kill dragons, Old Nan had told him once, when she would regale the Stark children of tales of old. He remembered the cold and fury in Daenerys’s eyes when he accused her of placing their child in jeopardy, when he demanded for his rights. Most of all he remembered the look of hurt betrayal that briefly flashed on her face. It turned out Old Nan was mistaken. Wolves could take down dragons too. Gods rest the old woman’s soul.

Jon had heard not a word from her, no news of her.

These days he prayed at least to find a message from Daenerys that she had left him of her own will. It would be kinder to know, than this perpetual uncertainty if she were dead or alive. Kinder to know, yet Jon could not hope to foresee what he would do either way. 

She was waxing past half her term now, he knew. If Daenerys were home in Winterfell, perhaps Sansa would be hard at work with the womenfolk in letting out her clothes and failing it, making entirely new ones. By now, she would have grown for all the North to see that Ned Stark’s blood lives on, be it from a bastard line. Every time he stood before her men, he could see the bloodlust in them all, the thrum of agitation barely covered by the tranquil blanket over them. 

The dozen parties—now one less than the dozen—that fanned in all directions throughout the land were the only reasons the host remained at base, anxious for word that would tell them which direction to take their sharpened weapons. Each time he had called on the men to ride with him and defend any of the lower houses from the wights, it was a relief to expend the taut patience of the battle ready horde.

Even now he had just returned. Where Winterfell had been spared, and the Night King never turned back to attack the castle, Jon and the Northmen had spent the last weeks in an unending defense for every other hold in the North. The Night King never retreated as he waited, seemed only intent in growing his army larger and larger with the dead he gathered.

Over the weeks he had grown to appreciate Ser Jaime’s part in the war. Setting aside his weak arm, the man fought with a heart and planned each battle with the cynical eye of a man who had been fighting too long. Beside him, Lady Brienne lent the strength that Ser Jaime’s sword hand lacked, and became the Kingslayer’s first line of defense.

When Maester Wolkan arrived to the council chamber, Jon abruptly stood. The maester held in his hand no less than six raven scrolls. Jon felt Jaime’s eyes on him, and when he looked at the knight he gave a curt nod. Jon thought it a silent sign of support, and nodded back. It was strange what war did to friends, even stranger what it wrought on enemies.

Ser Davos, as Hand of the King, took the messages in his hand. Lord Tyrion leaned back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. The maester turned to Lord Tyrion and handed him a lone message. Jon noted silently how Lord Tyrion placed the small roll on the table for all to see.

Ser Davos opened the messages one by one, each coming from noble houses in Westeros. One by one the response dashed his hope for an answer. “Nothing strange,” Ser Davos read out loud, his accent thick as his voice reflected his king’s disappointment. “Seen nothing out of the ordinary.” From another he said, “Lady Stark, no one but the family has come and gone. There have been no visitors here, expected or otherwise. Please inform your brother, the Lord Paramount.” Davos huffed. “That one certainly is loyal to Cersei.”

Of course, only houses that Daenerys could sway to her side, only houses that would be loyal to House Targaryen, would recognize him King in the North. Only the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms could give him back his title and demand such respect for her consort. 

The message, in response to one that Jon had signed, directly addressing Sansa through her legitimate claim to the seat that Ned Stark had left behind, clearly communicated the house’s position.

The hand of the queen took the message addressed to him and unfurled it, as he knew Jon expected. No one kept secrets in the council chamber. Not anymore. If they were to survive, Jon had addressed them, everything must be on the table.

“It is from Ser Jorah,” Tyrion relayed. The knight from Bear Island had decided to ride out, leave Winterfell, and track what he could to find the queen. In this, Ser Jorah’s freedom to do as he wanted, his ability to pursue Daenerys without consequence to those he would leave behind, Jon Snow envied Jorah Mormont. “Ser Jorah has crossed the marshlands.” The knight had told them he would go south, as Jon and the Northmen could easily cover the large expanse of the North. “He had not seen or heard news that would help, but he will inform us once he knows.” Tyrion looked up. “In other news, it seems that Lord Euron Greyjoy and the Golden Company have arrived at King’s Landing. Ser Jorah has encountered a small band in a pub that had seen their banners on their march to the capital.”

“I want to send another message to all the houses,” Jon declared. “No more of this half certain ask to know if they had seen anything. The only reason they answered us is in fear of Daenerys’s wrath. Ask them if they have seen the queen.”

“No!” Sansa opposed immediately. She turned to her brother, “Jon, for both ours and her sake, do not let it be known that we have lost Daenerys.”

He could not tell why, but Jon turned to Ser Jaime, instead of Lord Tyrion. Ser Jaime thought long, then agreed. “The Seven Kingdoms are in fear of Daenerys Targaryen and her army. Cersei had spread stories a long time of how fearsome and terrible the Mad King’s daughter is, how she would come from Essos with her horde and her dragons and crush Westeros.”

“And you know they are lies,” Jon prompted.

“I am with you against the dead. I am not sworn to you against Cersei,” Ser Jaime told him. Before Jon could speak, Ser Jaime raised his good hand to ask for more time to speak. “If I were, this is what I will tell you. Your greatest strength is not the incredible size of your army, which dwarfs any that Cersei has in her command with or without the Golden Company. Your greatest strength is that Westeros fears her—she is a larger threat than they can fathom. To them she is a dragonrider. They have heard she walks through fire, and she crushed great cities across the sea. If you allow word to come out to the houses that Daenerys has been abducted, that you and Daenerys are not commanding this army together today, the fear will dissipate. She will just be a woman.”

Jon’s hands fisted on the table.

Just a woman—

Sansa’s lips thinned, but she could not complain. Jaime Lannister may have said it in so many words she opposed, but at least his position was same as hers.

“Is there word from King’s Landing?” Sansa asked. “From Cersei?” Ser Davos shook his head. “She did not send us a message when we announced your marriage either. She is trying to show us it does not matter.”

“Or my sister is spitting furious at your audacity,” Tyrion shared. “To name yourself King in the North was bad enough, because you were seceding from the crown the way your brother did. Now you have the temerity to wed a younger queen that Cersei insists is a usurper. You are more than a rebel now. You have become a threat to her rule. Why should she answer you?”

Jon paused as he contemplated his options. One could not hope to wait. A king took an active role else none at all. In it perhaps it was the only sign of his mother, because Ned Stark had always hoped to remain in Winterfell, away from the politics in the rest of Westeros, content to be lord over the cold, familiar lands of the North he loved. 

“If I am at her doorstep Cersei will answer.”

When his sister turned her blue eyes at him with a plea, Jon blamed his frayed nerves and the time that had been taken away from him. “Jon, please stay.” Her voice was weaker now, lost none of the commanding edge it had before, long ago, in the life he had before he met Daenerys Targaryen and Sansa had told him to remain in the North. “I want to find Daenerys as much as you do but—“

“Do you?” he challenged.

Had he listened to Sansa before, his life would have been different. He would be ruling the North as a rebel land against Cersei, just as now. But he would not have known the secret of the crypts, never have learned about the real force that had come from Essos, never have flown in the air atop a dragon.

Never been wrapped around and buried inside her, never been whole.

“Yes!”

“That is my wife out there, my child. Your mind cannot imagine how much I need to find them, least of all feel the same.”

“I’m sorry, Jon, I did not mean to imply—“

He stood abruptly. “Lady Sansa,” he said quietly. His sister had never wanted Daenerys in Winterfell, had in fact sent Arya to make this clear when he and Daenerys arrived at the crossroads of Kingsroad from White Harbor. Winterfell was her home, not his. Her mother had ensured that despite his respect for his father, Jon would know he had no place here—not even a place in the crypts. This was enough.

“We need you,” Sansa said tearfully, in anticipation, he thought, of what she knew he had decided then. “They chose you king. You do not abandon your people, not when they need you.”

Honor.

Blasted fucking honor.

The ones that knew him always knew it was honor that had raised him, and honor that will anchor him.

Daenerys was not in the North. By now he was certain of it. Daenerys was not in the North, but the old houses, his brother and sisters, were. His child was not in the North, but the Night King and his white walkers were there to terrorize all houses other than Winterfell in his bid to perhaps build his army ever larger.

Honor that bound him.

Honor that made him king.

He needed to ride South to find her. To do so he needed to leave the North in all this destruction.

“You will ride South,” Lord Tyrion assured him, “the moment we have one word that tells us where she could be, your grace. On the day that raven arrives, you will hear nothing from any of us. You will take the men and the weapons you tell us you will take. Any one of us you need beside you will ride with you.” Jon turned to Sansa, who needed in agreement. “One raven that gives us direction, so you are not riding farther from where you needed to go. Then I will help you piss your honor off from the top of the Wall, your grace.”

This was not his home. It had become more apparent without Daenerys here to cast a shadow over the memories of his childhood. Having lived nowhere other than the North, he could not even tell whether any place else was home to him. Perhaps no place was, and home would only ever be with those who lived with him.

“I have heard you all,” he said slowly. To Ser Jaime he said, “Winterfell will not be under siege.”

“Not while the Night King is sworn to the queen.”

“Ser Jaime, will you draw up plans, tell me the resources required to defend the North?” Ser Jaime nodded. Jon turned to Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion. “I will ensure sufficient resources are in place to protect Winterfell and defend the other houses. Once again, I leave the North to Lady Sansa. If you will give her your counsel, your king would be grateful for your service.”

He could see, clearly, his sister close her eyes in her disappointment. When she opened them he could see the grudging acceptance.

“One day, Sansa, you would understand.”

“I understand now,” she replied, her voice calm. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Bran and I will remain. Arya will leave with you, of course.”

“Arya will remain here. You need her sword.”

“Lady Brienne will be our sword. You will not be able to leave Arya again, Jon. I dare you try.”

He gave a small smile in response. “Ned’s eldest children trying to make a decision about Arya Stark’s future,” he said. “If she knew—“

“She would be furious. She’d pull my hair, and sulk at you but do nothing against you.”

Jon took a deep breath. “Wish me well, sister.” 

Sansa stood and wrapped her arms around Jon’s body. “Return safe, Jon.”

At break of dawn the next day, Jon sat astride his horse at the forefront of fifty thousand men. He looked back behind him as the gates of Winterfell stood open, the portcullis pulled up, hovering above Sansa and Bran.

Winterfell was Sansa’s, not the runt of the pack’s. The keep was always meant to go to one of Catelyn’s children. He had accepted it too long ago, when he was far too young to appreciate the differences between how the world saw Robb and how it did the son named Snow. 

Winterfell was behind him now.

To his right, with a nod of support and the trusty sword at her hip, his sister Arya rode a horse that at first glance seemed too large and tall for her. He had not needed to ask her. The moment he had stepped out of the council room the night before, Arya had stood outside the door and informed him. She was going to go, going to fight with her brother, or get lost in the South with him. He needed her after all. Jon had lived all his life in one end of the land, and Arya had been far more well traveled than he, she told him.

Jon frowned at the sight of one of the men who followed him. He rode his horse towards the familiar figure. “Sam,” Jon said. He had not seen his friend since he had sworn him off after abandoning Winterfell during the first attack. At his friend’s side gleamed his family sword, the Valyrian steel blade Heartsbane. He motioned to his friend to ride forward, so he may refuse him in private and not where all could overhear. “This journey is not for you.”

Samwell shook his head, and gripped the sword at his side. “I was a coward before, but I can’t be a coward always.”

“And what of Gilly? Baby Sam?” Jon pressed. “You know your place is with them, Sam.”

“I am with you now, Jon. You are going South, and there will be many enemies there. I am with the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Daenerys. Samwell Tarly would stand for Daenerys Targaryen.

“Your brother has seen it, Jon, and you need to know before you charge into the South. You know the threat of the dead, but you are not prepared for the kind of threat that lies with men.”

“What are you talking about?” Jon looked back towards the figure of his siblings. He could almost hear Bran’s words loud in his ear. 

“Jon, you are the heir to the Iron Throne. You are a Stark only through your mother Lyanna.” Jon looked back at Sam, his voice fading as the words rang strange. “You are the last surviving child of Prince Rhaegar.” From over Samwell’s shoulders Jon met the intent gaze of his brother Bran. 

“So I am another man’s bastard.” It did not make a difference. Not now. Not anymore. And now, instead of being the bastard of an honorable man he had become the bastard of a man who had abducted his mother, perhaps forced himself on her. The very thought made his stomach churn.

“Your brother saw it in his vision, and I read about it in Oldtown,” Sam continued. “The prince married your aunt.” Sam shook his head, confused by own stumble. “Not aunt. Your mother. Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark were in love and married. The prince’s marriage to Elia Martell was annulled. I swear it, Jon. You are not a bastard. You are the true heir to the throne.”

And now from bastard to Targaryen.

“Not Daenerys, not Cersei, not any one of them. You know I would not lie to you.”

From afar, as if timed so perfectly well, the red dragon on black flapped proudly above the host. Bran raised a hand in farewell. High above Jon the dragons circled, searching still, tireless as he swore he would be.

Jon noticed Ser Jaime riding out through the lines of men behind Jon. He turned to Sam and said abruptly, “Tell no one.” 

“Will you accommodate another man, Lord Snow?” called out Ser Jaime from a distance. “I’d like to make my way to King’s Landing with you.”

Jon nodded. “Another sword, another mind. We can use both.”

~o~

The hot bath soothed her tried muscles. She sank in the water, and then leaned her head back on the tub and rested her eyes. Missandei knelt before the tub and she placed crushed petals in the water. Daenerys took a deep breath. Despite her own will, her lips curved into a smile at the pleasant feelings that the fragrance invoked.

Silently, Missandei worked. She scrubbed her body with the wet cloth, and when she reached Daenerys’s feet, the queen opened and eyes and watched her handmaid under hooded lids.

“Tell me at least,” Daenerys cut into the awful awkward silence broken only by the sounds of the water, “that whatever Lord Varys offered to you to betray me, he has fulfilled.”

Missandei looked back sadly at Daenerys. And then reluctantly, she nodded. “I asked that you will be safe and cared for.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. “Gold?” Missandei shook her head. “It cannot be a title, because here you still are. Although one can have a title and wealth and serve a queen.”

Missandei stood and placed the wrung cloth onto a chair atop her discarded clothes. “I asked for nothing for myself, your grace,” she said to her again. When Daenerys looked at this one whom she used to think was her closest friend, her confidante, memories of the years together clouded her. Because MIssandei always looked so open and truthful. She turned her gaze away until it settled on the dress laid out on the bed.

She stood from the tub, dripping still. Daenerys caught sight of herself in the mirror. The last occupant of the Maidenvault seemed to love her own reflection. There were more mirrors here than she had seen before. Daenerys had seen more of herself in her stay than she had all her life combined. The mirror marked for her the length of time she had been away from Winterfell. Daenerys looked at the prominent swell of her belly, placed a hand on top of the taut skin.

“Four moonturns, and the small one will come.”

Daenerys stepped out dripping from the tub. She reached for the drying cloth that Missandei offered, and wrapped it around her body. She walked to the bed. It was different from all the clothes she had worn before, but it was the style of the capital and the kind of dresses she had been born to wear. This was none of the harsh riding gear of the Dothraki, or the flimsy sheer of the Free Cities or the subdued wraparound form fitting robes of the Bay. This was elegant velvet and brocade, fit for royalty.

“Is this from Queen Margaery’s wardrobe?”

“No, your grace. The master—“ Missandei caught herself. “It was a gift. You are requested to wear them for your audience tonight.”

It was no surprise that her demand came unheeded. Daenerys knew well what men in positions of power did. They took, and never gave any in return. She had been sold by power for power, penetrated and threatened and deceived. 

“Your grace has saved my life, not once but three times—once when I was a slave, the other in Meereen, and then when you sent me away from Winterfell.” Missandei took the dress in hand and lowered herself to hold the dress open for Daenerys. “I swear to your grace. This is how you will get everything you have fought for from across the sea.”

Daenerys released the drying cloth that covered her, and then stepped into the dress. Her handmaid pulled it up to cover her. The intricately embroidered form and cut effectively hid her pregnancy. Missandei pulled and fastened the back. Daenerys stood before the mirror in the garb that was far heavier than what she was used to wearing. No wonder, she realized, because the chest was encrusted with jewels.

Her chest tightened, and her throat constricted. Suddenly it was choking her, and she imagined the stories of her eldest brother and the rubies that burst from his own jeweled breast plate when Robert Baratheon killed him by the river. Daenerys grabbed at the neckline and pulled at the dress. She was alone here, with no one to trust. Even from the very day she moved from Ilyrio’s house to to Drogo’s bed, she was always certain there was one person she could trust.

Now she was in the den of lions, with the black shadow of a new predator she had not seen before, with no one to trust but a girl who had already once betrayed her.

“Take it off!” Daenerys gasped. The weight of the dress would slow her, the jewels would sink her. “Missandei—“

And then Missandei grasped her hand, the feel of it so familiar. “Your grace, when you meet him, you will look every part the queen.” Daenerys looked back in the mirror. Slowly the words sank in, and it was as if the dress loosened itself as her body adjusted to the weight and feel of it. “Your grace will show him who Daenerys Stormborn is.”

The time that Missandei spent as she dried her hair and brush the tumbled waves into submission, Daenerys took to collect herself. When she finished, Daenerys looked up at her strange appearance. Her fingers reached up and ran through the loose curls. She had never presented herself so, with her hair loose and free in this manner. The last time she had been so loose was when she was offered to Drogo.

She met Missandei’s eyes in the mirror, and imperceptibly shook her head. Missandei nodded, and pulled her silver hair back. Rather than the braids she had grown used to, Missandei pulled sections and created a high bun surrounded by a coronet of her hair.

The knock on the door told them it was time. Daenerys stood in her grand gown with her bare feet. Missandei looked for shoes and turned up empty. She hurried to the door and pulled it open, stopped still at the sight of the new arrival.

It was the boy—no, the young man—who frequently Daenerys saw observing her too closely. At his appearance by her door, she could surmise he was the eyes and ears on her. “Is she ready?”

Daenerys regarded him. He was far too young to be given the task to keep his eye on an intractable queen. Perhaps, like Jaime Lannister, the young man was connected well to power. He did not seem older than two or three years from her. By the look of him, he had not seen battles or the world as much as Jon or she herself did. 

Instead of waiting for Missandei, Daenerys answered, “Do I seem ready to you?”

At the sight of her, the young man’s lips curved. “You seem perfect to me, your grace.”

Too forward. This guard knew not his place. “I will not pad across the courtyard barefoot.”

From behind him he presented the pair of shoes, jeweled still in decor, as if these men around her had too many gold and gems they needed to be placed on everything. Missandei took the shoes and helped Daenerys place them on. To her surprise, the shoe fit her well.

“Your grace,” he said, presenting an arm to her as if he were an escort or a prince. Daenerys’s brows arched, and she did not take his arm. She walked past him instead, down the steps and out in the open. The young man behind her followed close behind her. “Your grace, I am supposed to escort you to the hall.”

“You are escorting me, ser,” Daenerys parried back. “From afar, without touching me.”

“That would be difficult, your grace.”

Daenerys paused, then looked back at him. “Difficult? What is difficult about walking alongside the queen—“

“Griff. They call me Young Griff, but never mind them. I am older than you, your grace.”

“Griff,” she said, testing the unfamiliar name on her tongue. “What is difficult about escorting me this way?”

“Difficult if I will not touch you, your grace. See, everyone in that hall expects we will marry.”

Daenerys stared back at the young man—no, boy, child even. It started with a small bubble inside of her, that escaped in a gentle manner. Then she was chuckling, and laughing out loud. Griff waited patiently for her to recover from the fit. After the last of her laughter abated, she shook her head. Griff still had his arm offered to her, undeterred. His expression reminded her of Jon. She had to remember they were all young still, caught in this web, fighting to survive and to have the ultimate right to smoothen the wheel or destroy it.

Once again the sharp pang hit her when her thought of her husband far away. 

With a shrug, she reached for his arm. “Griff, you may lead the way.”

tbc


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Apologies for the delay and the erratic upload schedule. I am currently traveling in HongKong, and then Manila, Dubai then London again in the next couple of weeks. I am squeezing in writing time in flights and at night. Thank you for your patience.

Part 17

She ran all the possibilities in her mind. This young man, brazen as he was, seemed to truly believe his claim that they were to be married. Daenerys wondered what the Spider had told him, and how one who was as adept at royal affairs as Lord Varys could be party to a plan so absurd.

She would be married off to some young sellsword, was the plan? 

Daenerys knew Lord Varys could be foolhardy with his changing loyalties, but the man survived this long in the game. He was not stupid. She stole a glance at the young man whose arm she held, a fleeting look only enough that she glimpsed again that the blue and silver hair she had before seen was truly pure pale silver underneath. To the Westerosi, it was quite obviously Targaryen hair. Daenerys knew better. Out in Essos there was another world, scattered all over it trace essence of the platinum hair that was the Valyrian mark on the lands and its people. 

When they entered the hall, Daenerys released her escort’s arm. Beside Lord Varys another man stood. She stepped forward, because the man’s figure was shadowcast and she could not make out who stood before her close to the throne, a literal block in her way.

The man was large, so his silhouette appeared foreboding. He was decked in gold, his breastplate had been dipped in gold and not painted on, she could see. A sellsword—the sellsword, she recognized. “You are leader of the Golden Company.”

“As the honorable exiled lords have intended,” was the pretense at humility. The words, coming from him, rang false to Daenerys. They gave off the same level of humility it did when her Hand used to declare to an audience that she was a leader selected by the people, not a mere conqueror. “Harry Strickland.”

Any half man, with the right army and weapons, could be a conqueror.

It took a woman to lead them across a sea and win hearts.

Her eyes narrowed. As fearsome a reputation they had as their name provided, the Golden Company was dwarfed by all she had.

“May I present her grace, Daenerys Stormborn, queen of the Andals—“

“We are honored with your presence.”

Daenerys started at the unexpected sound that came from behind her. She turned and found an older man blocking the doorway where she and young Griff had walked through. On both ends of the room now she was flanked. In the Red Keep, which should have been her home, the realization was overwhelming. The man moved further into the room, and Daenerys cursed herself for making the blunder of falling back one step. 

A firm hand rested on the small of her back, a silent reminder to her not to fall backwards one more time because it weakened her.

Once she had collected herself, Daenerys took careful note that this man did not even allow for her titles, with patience worn thin with disbelief.

“There is no use pretending. I am not a guest, did not come of my own free will,” she said sharply. “What do you want?”

The man behind her seemed to be more pacifist. Young Griff, for what it was worth, seemed more comfortable with that older man. “We want to show you how much we value you, your grace. It is not every day we have a queen in ours midst—let alone a kingsblood.”

The words reminded her of Cersei, down below in the dungeons, the queen, for all intents and purposes, that called for the Golden Company to her cause. Cersei was the queen to paid for the journey and the time.

How easily these honorable sellswords turned against her.

He bowed to her, and said, “Jon Connington. I was your brother’s friend, sworn to the silver prince my sword and my life.”

Rhaegar, of course. These men before her had laughed Viserys away when once that brother had called for their service in his quest. “Forgive me, Jon Connington, but I remember well how the Golden Company treated Prince Viserys. Your word to Prince Rhaegar matters not to me. Now, it is actions for the living that matter.”

“I gave you a simple demand, but I cannot trust you to listen.”

The tea would have bought her time, perhaps time enough that Jon or any of the loyal leaders of her own army could find her.

Jon Connington looked towards the leader Strickland. Daenerys slowly turned to the man in the rich golden armor, and saw him nod and gesture with his hand towards one of the columns to the side. Daenerys watched as two men pulled on their chains and from behind the column came stumbling out a shackled prisoner.

The prisoner fell to his knees, and Daenerys looked wide eyed in anticipation. She swore that those were the colors of Iron Island, and feared that her ally Theon had been captured. Yet the man was larger, more worn. She recognized the man now. It was the coward who scurried away from the dragonpit with his tail between his legs. 

Euron Greyjoy.

Sent instead to collect the mercenary company in his ships.

Daenerys walked towards the prisoner and stood before him. She looked down at the sneering face below her. This was the admiral of Cersei’s fleet, the man who had effectively killed off her Sand loyalists in Dorne, who had captured Yara and crumbled her portion of the Iron fleet.

“We are not young, gullible men,” Harry Strickland told her as he stood beside her now, looking down at Euron. “We know the difference between what you ask for and what you deserve. A queen deserves this welcome gift,” he said, nodding towards the prisoner.

“You are giving him to me?” she said, raising her eyebrows in question towards Strickland. She trained herself to appear surprised, even as she knew there was a hidden purpose to what this sellsword deemed as his generosity. Good as gold, they were proud to claim. Yet Daenerys, in all that she had not been formally trained as many princes and princesses were, head heard these stories especially on the day that Viserys dined with them. Bitter still, just as the fathers of their fathers of their fathers had been, under the bitter steel. “I have a hundred thousand men who would lay down their lives for me,” Daenerys stated. She could not miss the slight curve of Strickland’s lips, as if the image of her large army elicited such pleasure in him. “I have dragons,” she added. “And I have the North.” Even if that much was uncertain, she included them. After all, as far as she could hope for and despite their argument Jon Snow was still her husband and its King. “What use have I of a usurper like this?” She turned her scathing stare at the man on the ground before her, whose sneer was mocking, as if he were not low as a mangy dog before her.

“I would not presume to burden the Dragon Queen with feeding and housing my prisoners. Your gift is his fate and Cersei Lannister’s,” Strickland told her. At the words, Euron’s sneer faded. His look was wide eyed as Daenerys looked down at him. “We will allow you to decide when they eat, where they stay, and most especially how they are executed.”

She swore there was part of her father in her, because the words gave her too much thrill, too much elation. Deaths were a matter of course in this war, and while it had not been easy Daenerys had known enough to accept it as part of the path she had chosen—a path on which one left a string of scattered limbs and ashes on the wayside. Her husband, for all his foolhardy ideas and the casualties of his battles, had injected his heavy conscience in her thoughts that Daenerys found herself waffling.

She lowered herself slightly, so she could ask him softly, “How did you kill them all—flayed them, launched cannons at them, rammed the bow of your ship into theirs so sink them?” His eyes flickered at the memories of all those he had murdered. “In the North there was once a family—they are all dead now. They killed their enemies by skinning them alive. Would you like that?” 

Euron Greyjoy bared his teeth at her. “Burn me with dragonfire.” Compared to many deaths that men and women had suffered in his hands, dragonfire would be quick and sharp pain. “Your father loved to burn men alive.”

Daenerys straightened, and then looked back at Strickland. “They have no power now,” she said. Daenerys glanced towards the young man who watched her still, who seemed to her a pawn in his silence. If the voice was Strickland’s and the hands were Lord Varys’s, then who was this that presented himself so surely to her? “But I do. I demand to be returned to the North, or set free at port. I can make my own way home. Forget Euron. Forget Cersei Lannister. Westeros will.”

Home.

What an odd way to think of that hostile, bitter cold. All along in Essos home was Dragonstone or King’s Landing, and now she could think of no other bed she would rather sleep in than the fur covered bed in Jon’s chambers.

“There is power that grows inside her, a threat,” said that man Jon Connington, who had come closer to them as she had spoken to Euron. Friend of Rhaegar’s, if he is to be believed. His words made her stop as he knew they would. “Once Westeros knows, there will be houses that will rally behind her. It will be harder for any Targaryen to have an unchallenged claim to the Seven Kingdoms.”

There was only one type of power that could do that. Daenerys's hand rested on her own belly. She looked up to Strickland. “Send her to me to the Maidenvault. I will speak with her.”

“Speak with her in the dungeons, where her sort needs to remain.”

She had given this man too much power, if he could even think to deny her again. Enough. “And I am queen, and I will not spend another moment in those dungeons. Take her to the Maidenvault. It used to be a prison. Guard it like a prison. I will speak to Cersei Lannister in comfort.”

Lord Varys stepped forward, his robes shuffling around his feet, his hands clasped before him. “Your grace, there is the matter of utmost importance, your reason of being here.” For once since she had arrived she saw the uncertainty about him, and knew it for what it was. “I swore to you that I would be direct and truthful—“

Her lips thinned. “Do you think anything you will say now will make me forget that you have taken me here against my will?” Daenerys bristled. “A truth too late is no truth at all.”

Lord Varys nodded. “If it pleases you, your grace—“

“Nothing you can say or do will change my mind.”

Lord Varys, the deceiver, then looked towards Young Griff in supplication. Once more Daenerys was intrigued, that this silent amenable boy was at the certain of it all. Too many of these men who played at power looked to him—from the pointed way that Strickland spoke of him, to the caring look that Connington gave, to the support that Varys sought.

Finally Young Griff turned to the men in the hall and said to them, “The queen is weary, and this is not the time. You have offered your gifts and she has given you her wishes. Perhaps with time we will better understand the other.”

“Well said,” said Connington, with a strong pat on the younger man’s back. Varys nodded his head to the side once, and stepped backwards in silent acknowledgment.

Young Griff offered his arm to Daenerys, and she looked at it warily. Her eyes narrowed at him. “What is it about you, Griff?” Because grown men, powerful men, did not easily capitulate. She was queen with her own army and will, and no one groveled this way before her, the way that these men did now.

“A story for another time, it seems.”

Daenerys could feel the eyes on her—anticipating and expecting. Another time was only but a delay, and if any of these men thought to use her as pawn, to bargain her body and her hand in marriage—no matter how much she could not understand still what this young man from Essos brought with him—better to quash the hopes now.

“You think to marry me to this boy.”

“An alliance that cannot be denied, if we have the wedding in the Red Keep.”

Her wolf pup jumped inside her it seemed, or at least made its presence known with a swift kick. “I am wed to the King in the North,” she declared proudly. “Witnessed by Cersei Lannister’s own brother Lord Tyrion, and the Lady of Winterfell.”

Truly Daenerys had expected him to realize the folly of the plan. Instead Young Griff nodded, having known all along. “The missive that Lady Stark sent to all the houses reached us, which was the reason we needed to make haste. Your grace, You were married in Winterfell, following the Old Gods?” Daenerys nodded. “This marriage has no record in Oldstown, nor any of the books in the capital.”

“The announcement from the Lady of Winterfell was sufficient record.”

Lord Varys turned and produced before him a large tome of records, a newer one, with its pages crisp and the letters clear. He turned to the page, and Daenerys saw a handful of pages scorched clearly with intentional fire.

Slowly, she looked up. The violet eyes that looked back at her were concerned. “You have been fooled, your grace. They want to use you, but you are not wed.” And it seemed his concern was genuine, despite the obvious manipulation. He was insane, she thought. It was the only conclusion she reached. He was insane, or utterly gullible. Neither of which proved promising in her current situation. Of all these four men before him, she would naturally think to leverage this young man. 

Deceitful men, like Lord Varys, she knew. Men that masked their self gain with the pretense of honor, like this Strickland, she knew. Even these men blinded by loyalty and love, as she could tell of Connington, she knew. These were flaws of men, and over the years she had studied them, used them.

This one—this Young Griff—was untested waters.

Young Griff walked with her out into the gardens, making their way around the paved pathway. The darkness had set in, but well around them like some choreographed ceremony lit torches allowed dancing flames to illuminate the white staircase. They made their way up the steps, and the view made way for the breathtaking sight of Blackwater Bay. The sea breeze carried the pungent smell of the sea to her. Her stomach roiled as her wolf pup objected to that defining odor.

Guarded as she was, Daenerys could not help the tightening in her throat. She just knew that her ancestors had stood right where she stood now, having conquered and settled these kingdoms, and beheld the waters of the Narrow Sea. Aegon must have imagined sailing home across the channel and knowing well there was none of Valyria left for them. And then, Daenerys knew, the first king would have turned back around to the other side and beheld the potential before him and made the Seven Kingdoms truly his own.

There was a time to look back, to long for home. And there was a time to look forward and understand what truly mattered.

“We are between two worlds,” he said, breaking the lull and rhythm of the crashing waves. Young Griff’s words, as they stood together yet alone, seemed intimate as a shared secret. “I can give you both of them.” 

She raised her chin, but did not move her gaze from the waters. “I have them both.” The gall of this young man, to claim this to the queen. “Who are you, Griff? You are most definitely not a mere sellsword. Even the most brazen of mercenaries—“ she thought back to Daario “—know his limits.” Finally she looked at him. “You act like you have none.”

“I was raised knowing I was more than what I was,” he told her. He raised his hand and removed the glove, showed the calloused pads of his fingers and the hardened skin of his palm. “I worked hard and found out how it was to catch food for the table. I received an education that would have been the envy of many lords and princes. I never knew why, until a few years ago. Since then I have been on a course to you. I have been at your footstep, always close but always too late to meet you in Essos. Finally I heard you settled in Meereen, and decided that was my course.”

She searched his face. His eyes were intent, as if in genuine recollection. “And then I sailed for Dragonstone.”

He reached for a lock of her hair that the breeze had caused to fall astray. Daenerys held her breath, curious about the too familiar action. “Fortunately, the Lannister queen needed to buy men to fight for her. The Golden Company made a deal with Euron Greyjoy, and we were able to sail. The moment I saw Cersei Lannister on the throne, we knew we needed to dispose of her.”

“Who are you?”

“I am a dead man, and I am family.”

Her mind raced across all possibilities.

“Right here, in this very keep, the Lannisters and the Baratheons came to kill my mother and my sister. They killed my father before then. Savages,” he muttered under her breath. Daenerys’s heart stopped as her senses reeled. Her knees buckled under her, and his hands caught her shoulders in a viselike grip. Her eyes filled. “All of them savages. But for the grace of the gods, Lord Varys smuggled me out of the capital and into safety in Essos.”

Hidden and exiled.

“No one else in the world know better what we have been through, than each other,” he finished. 

Away from home. Across the sea.

“My name is Aegon Targaryen.”

The tears rained down her cheeks. “Aegon is dead. He died with his sister and his mother.”

She was the last Targaryen, not this upstart.

“I know exactly how you felt, trapped somewhere, raised knowing one day I would need to return and take back what was stolen. Whether or not I wanted it, I was bound by honor and the blood of Rhaenys Targaryen and Elia Martell. “Who else in this world has suffered more than us? Who else will understand us but each other?”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, her voice weaker with uncertainty. “I would have known. Viserys would have told me.”

Then again, Viserys had been so certain of his place that she doubted he knew. He was a child then, as with their mother’s fear for their lives had been spirited away before he knew what happened. Viserys had lived on stories as much as she.

“These people around us have protected us for a long time. The wheels have been turning since before we knew they were there, Daenerys. Let them work for us. This is what we have worked hard for.”

Two claimants, one house.

This was how rebellions began.

“By custom, you should rightfully marry me. We are the last, Daenerys. You are queen, and I have not pursued you to take that away. I am the king, and in marriage you will be my queen.”

She pushed away from him. “I am already the queen.”

“Before you knew of me, you had every right to declare so. But I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“You are insane like my father if you think I would give up all I have worked for.”

“You give up nothing. I am the heir. And you will be my consort.”

This time, Daenerys chuckled bitterly. There was the madness of the Targaryens in him, she allowed that much. “Your consort?” Even in such a moment she could imagine Jon, and how he would have given a hearty laugh at the thought. His wife, a consort. She was queen. To Jon, there was no question. This young man had not truly met her, if he thought this was the answer.

“If you married before the Old Gods, as you said, then it is a good thing the throne is following the Faith of the Seven. Our people will recognize a true royal marriage.”

“The people in Westeros are already wary of me, being the daughter of the Mad King. Do you think we fare better, just because you and I carry that blood? Do you think they will believe you, just because you say you are who you are?”

“First it is marriage, and then our heir—“

She had not been as relieved to reveal the secret she closely guarded, the wolf pup sleeping underneath her heart. Daenerys brought her hands to the gown and shaped the cloth around the growing swell. Like so, the child was apparent. “I am carrying the child of the King in the North. It is a legitimate child, one who would rule the Seven Kingdoms after me. You are out of luck, Young Griff.”

The name would cause offense, she knew, after he had confessed to her who he thought she was.

“How far along?” was his abrupt question.

“You would not dare—“ 

He gave her a look of mock surprise. “I do not know what you have heard about me—“

“I have heard nothing about you,” she cut in. “You are supposed to be dead.”

“Then I am a miracle, just like your dragons.” He looked down at the swell of her belly. Just a few moons more and the child would come. Daenerys rested her hand protectively over her stomach, the regard causing her discomfort. “The child is a complication,” he said. She held her tongue. “There will be houses who will celebrate the promise of a child so soon. It is a complication, much as the one that Cersei’s poses.”

“You will not touch my child,” she told him clearly.

“We will wed in the Faith of the Seven the moment your child is born. There cannot be a question. I will not be passing the crown to a bastard’s bastard.”

Her hand flew so fast she that it was involuntary. She gripped his arm and warned him, “Say that word again about my child, and I will kill you. There is no love lost between us. It will not make me think twice.”

Young Griff’s purple eyes regarded her. She swore at least now, he saw her.

He nodded then. “I will speak to them. When I am king, I will send the child to the wall as soon as he is able to fight. Soon after Snow’s child is born, you will marry me, and you need to produce another heir, to ensure the line of succession.”

Jon’s seed taking root in her dead womb had been a miracle. She said with certainty, “I will not bear you a child, Griff.”

“Do not test me. You are a dragon,” he allowed. And then, “But so am I.”

Daenerys smiled stiffly. “Is that a threat, young Griff?”

“Yes,” was his only response. 

Gone now was the boy, so innocent and open only earlier. The young man had been a good actor. She wondered who he learned from. Out here with the full majesty of the kingdom before them, all pretense was lost. This was no innocent lost prince, but a man full knowing.

“I do not take kindly to threats.”

“Perhaps you need to remember, your grace, that you are in King’s Landing, surrounded by men loyal to me or men who tremble before me.”

“I am no man, and I dare you touch my child.”

He stepped forward threateningly. A sharp voice cut into the thick air between them. Young Griff stepped backwards. Daenerys turned and saw Connington and Lord Varys looking up towards them. 

“Stand down, son.”

To her surprise, Griff released her. “Please,” he said softly to her, “think of the Seven Kingdoms. Think of the Seven Kingdoms back in our hands, Daenerys. Your blood and mine, as pure as any marriage before had created. We will return this world to our dynasty, and history will marvel at the glory that will be our reign.” He placed his hands on her full swollen belly. “It all starts here.”

tbc


	18. Chapter 18

Part 18

The faces of death that Jon Snow remembered were far too many and far too frequent. Rarely did he see people pass naturally, in their old age, after seeing all their lives and living story after story, exhausting the pages of their books until the slip away in bed when their bodies grew far too exhausted to wake. The only one he could remember to die so was Maester Aemon. Old Nan, even in her ripe old age, was lost in the furor of the Greyjoy hold of Winterfell, and Jon had no way to know how she had passed. Often he liked to pretend that Old Nan died in bed after living all her years, but Jon Snow knew too much about war to know the old woman passed in a less restful way.

At least Jon had never fooled himself into thinking his death would not be in battle, his blood half spent and his body raw and torn. Never, at least, before one night in that ship bound for White Harbor, as he lay in bed with the queen pressed up against him, her fingers gently playing the skin over his ribs like a harp, and he discovered unfamiliar laughter bubbling in his throat.

Jon fooled himself that night, and wondered how life would be if the war was done and there was nothing more to do but live.

With her.

She had looked up at him then, her purple eyes and the silver gold that framed her face screamed at him that she was Targaryen, with fate and responsibility that was more than he would ever comprehend. Targaryens did not vanish into obscurity to live out their lives—Maester Aemon notwithstanding. Targaryens took the throne and, in her own words, saved the Seven Kingdoms.

And, as far back in his mind as he pushed it, that one niggling truth remained, fueled by the passion that Sam had when he told him—he was Targaryen now.

As if that one fact meant the world of difference to the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.

Aegon Targaryen.

Bundled up and renamed, hidden in plain sight for his own survival. Ned Stark’s deception was the only reason he lived with what family he had, raised nobly and studied at Robb’s side, instead of chased away from city to city with assassins poised for murder at every turn like every other Targaryen.

The way Daenerys had been.

He was Targaryen, burdened by the same responsibility to a people who knew nothing of him. The accountability was the same—this time for more than the people of the North, but for all of Westeros. He was Targaryen, burdened by the same privilege to sit on a throne molten by trophies of fallen kings and rebels.

More than Daenerys would be.

As they drew closer to King’s Landing, Jon watched as Jamie Lannister’s bone tired shoulders straightened in anticipation, how even as the weeks bent his spine atop his horse his posture became proud and eager. Samwell Tarly who rode not far behind seemed more anxious with the bound book clutched tightly at his side, knowing it was the only proof they carried of the claim Jon still could not be certain he wanted to lay.

Despite his unwillingness to slow, which made the way down the Kingsroad much quicker than ever it had been, Jon made his way up the crest on which Jaime Lannister had stopped to look down at the path before them. His sister was more familiar with this road, and bid him to take care as she stayed below. Jon stopped beside the former Kingsguard and looked down where he did.

The sprawling cityscape was tighter and busier than what he remembered just a few months ago. Above the dragons loomed, and he had no doubt anyone that saw the shadows from afar would tremble in terror. At this vantage he knew that they would be warning Cersei’s army, and the advantage of surprise being taken from them was not something he had spoken with Jaime about.

“Down below,” Ser Jaime said quietly, “I have a family waiting—one I traded to fight the dead.”

Even with those simple words, Jon’s skin crawled, thinking of the stories he had heard. Three golden shrouds, for the three Baratheon children. Was it the dead that awaited Ser Jaime in King’s Landing?

“Cersei is with my child,” Ser Jaime confided in Jon. The words torn from his throat painfully but with satisfaction. “This one I can claim as mine.”

And finally Jon knew the drive that took Jaime Lannister across the land to the dreary North, to fight a war that he could lose more than win. It was no more a sense of honor than it was for love. Jaime Lannister fought for the life of his child, for hope to come.

The blonde man looked back up at Jon with an intent glare. “I have come to help you take your wife back, because I know you will not be whole to fight until then. But after that swear you will help me take down the dead, so my child will not be born to that blasted eternal winter you seem to love.” 

Summers in Essos crumbled like spring flowers, swept away by the autumn breeze. 

“Allow my labor at least give my child one parent honorbound enough to keep his word.”

Men can dream of an escape from all that Westeros could take from them, but king knew dreams were only that—dreams.

“Let me save my wife and my child, and then we will finish the Night King,” Jon asked of the knight. 

~o~o~

When the Targaryen queens grew their babes in their bodies, they looked out these same high windows to gaze upon the world around them. Should there be sons inside them, they were anticipated as kings. Should there be daughters, they were to be wed to kings. And so those moon turns during which the queens grew and waxed full were wonderful and hopeful, essential to the realm. Nothing had been more important to the family than the new Targaryens to come, because they were the last of the old dragon’s blood that had since been doomed with Old Valyria, and the Targaryens were the future.

And now after all she worked for, she stood on King’s Landing, carrying the child of a king and a queen, with no power, her miracle of a child seen only as an obstacle. 

Daenerys had no doubt that her own mother proudly looked down at all that her children would rule. Her mother lived through the horrendous sack of King’s Landing, only to die in Dragonstone birthing her.

She was no dreamer by any means. Her dreams were prophetic—full of warnings and visions—but she never fooled herself that the world around her would be perfect once she triumphed. Where she once thought she would sit on the Iron Throne at the end of this all—after all for all she knew she was the last dragon—she wondered if it was not her dragonwolf who would sit there.

This is why she was going to break the wheel. Griff—this Aegon—whether or not he spoke the truth that he was Rhaegar’s son miraculously smuggled into Essos by the Spider who had then served years in King Robert’s court, or he was some mummer’s dragon installed to weaken her claim—represented simply turning back the wheel.

The sellswords were nothing, even combined with Cersei’s army that now, in the absence of Jaime Lannister, was nothing but arms and feet waiting for a head. She looked down at the fleet in Blackwater Bay, overwhelming in number and equipped with impressive firepower—a combination of what remained of Yara’s defeated fleet and Euron’s bride prize for Cersei.

Never at sea, she thought. By land even but a quarter of her own army could swarm the enemy. At sea, she would be defeated—Jon would be defeated. She looked behind her as Missandei quietly moved about the room, setting a place for two. Below she saw Cersei Lannister being led across the courtyard. Closer still to the Maidenvault was young Griff, whom she could not bring herself to call Aegon. Daenerys straightened and prepared herself, putting on the regal and stoic mask she had perfected since her time in Meereen. 

When the doors opened to young Griff, she was not surprised. He handed a small sack to Missandei. When he looked back at her, his face was full of remorse. “Dusk rose tea from Essos, as you wished.”

“Late.”

“Late. You did not make it easy. You were it was native across the Narrow Sea, not in Westeros. But your tea is here, just as you wanted.”

Daenerys nodded to Missadei, who set aside a pot to steep another. “The captain had sent another. Missandei has prepared it.”

“Leave Strickland’s offering for Cersei Lannister. You have the dusk rose. It took a lot for me to find it.” And then he placed a warm hand, all too familiar, on her shoulder. “You deserve nothing less. Apologies for my temper. I have the hot blood of a dragon. I only want our blood on the throne.”

She knew what he meant, but somehow the words sent a chill down her spine, an image flashing before her of dark red blood staining the iron, dripping onto the hard stone floors to pool by the throne’s sturdy claw feet.

“I want the exiled lords to return to their lands.”

Daenerys thought of the many wars and battles since, of castles changing hands, of fealties sworn and taken back. The wheel had turned and the trees had branched larger, sprawling infinite vines and godswood after the rebellion. “There are no more lands for them, you know that.” His grip on her shoulder grew firmer. “When those families betrayed mine—ours,” she corrected herself, “and fought on the side of the Blackfyre cousins, they lost their rights to the old houses.”

His thumb dug deeper into her collarbone, and instead of shaming herself with a cry of pain, Daenerys took all her strength to wrap her hand around his wrist and pull off his hand. “Is this what you promised in return for their support?”

“I am returning the houses of Westeros to their true lords, just like the throne will return to the true heir.”

“You will throw us into chaos.” 

“You are the bringer of chaos, hatching dragons, taking savages across the sea.”

Her lips thinned at the words. “Do I bring chaos with my dragons and savages?” she demanded. “Then you do not want my host.”

He shook his head. As if he could bring himself back. As if that flash of anger could be easily forgotten—like she did not see Viserys’s malice in the way he looked at her. He needed her, this much she already knew. She may have no armies now, no weapons or dragons. But Daenerys recognized between the two of them she was the one who held the upper hand. 

“Take the power from these disloyal houses who pledged to the usurpers; Take it away from those that would not honor their ancestors’ fealty to us.” Even as young Griff spoke of traitors she could remember the first day she met Jon Snow, when he refused to bend the knee and honor Torrhen Stark’s allegiance to the first Aegon Targaryen. He continued, “Grant power back to their rightful owners, people who have proven they know what loyalty means. Think about it.” He took her hand and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “Know I will do everything to give us back what is rightfully ours. I just need your faith in me.”

Daenerys forced a nod. The knock on the door told them that her audience with Cersei had begun. She watched when Griff stepped aside, as if schooled in courtly manners, to allow inside Cersei Lannister. The door closed behind young Griff. Missandei hurried to take the cloak that enveloped Cersei, and Daenerys’ eyes widened at the heavy belly that Cersei sported. She was further along then, and Daenerys realized that Cersei must have been pregnant when they all met at the dragon pit. 

“This is unacceptable,” she said aloud. At the protective hand that Cersei placed on her belly, Daenerys shook her head. “You may think me a monster, but I have my morals. You cannot return to the dungeons so far along in your condition. I cannot promise a change now, but I will voice my demand that you be placed in better lodging.”

Cersei’s lips curved, not in happiness, but in acknowledgment of the irony. “You may object, but arguably we are the two most powerful women this kingdom had seen—and we are in varying measures of captivity.”

Daenerys allowed herself to smile. “I am afraid these people around us have no appreciation of that. After all, they have allowed us to convene.”

“I know how I ended up here. I was betrayed by men I hired and paid for. I was abandoned by men who should have been the most loyal to me,” Cersei admitted. She looked at Daenerys from head to toe. “You look as if you not too far behind with child than I am, and last I saw you were with the self-proclaimed King in the North. For all his going on about being true to his word, I doubt you were betrayed by Jon Snow. How did you end up in King’s Landing?”

Daenerys’s gaze flickered towards Missandei as she sank in her chair. Cersei followed her gaze and her formerly most trusted Handmaiden looked down as she poured the steaming cups of tea. Cersei took a seat across from Daenerys.

Missandei placed the cups before the two queens brought low in their captivity. “Your grace, would you rather have the tea from the dusk rose leaves that Master Aegon brought with him?”

Daenerys picked up the steaming cup and brought it up to her lips. The fragrance of the tea assailed her. She glanced back at the fine satchel that Missandei held in the palm of her hands and saw the familiar leaves, and the comforting memory of sipping tea at the top of her pyramid in Meereen visited her. She put down the tea and nodded. “I might as well.”

Cersei picked up the steaming cup and sipped the tea already placed before her. Before Daenerys could offer, Cersei had downed half of her drink. “This is luxury enough to me after weeks in the dungeon, with the tepid tea and bland meals I was given.” Cersei looked back at Daenerys as she sank back into the plush seat. “You have a taste for foreign things, I see.”

Daenerys smiled. “It reminds me of home.”

“And that tea, my dear, is why you will be challenged staking your claim on the Iron Throne. You are foreign. You will always be looked upon as foreign to the Seven Kingdoms.”

“For tea?” Daenerys repeated in disbelief.

Cersei nodded. “For your taste in tea. And many others.” She waved around her, then cocked her head towards Daenerys. “Tell me. Do any of these decors and clothing please you?”

Daenerys sat back. “They are very beautiful, but none I would have chosen myself.”

“All that Margaery had adorned her tower with are sourced right here in the Seven Kingdoms.” Cersei gestured to the dressers and the bed. “Those were especially ordered from the Vale. The sheets and curtains,” she pointed to the windows, “came from Dorne. The clothes and jewelry in those closets, of course,” Cersei declared, walking towards the stand from where she lifted a heavy necklace with its ruby dropping from the chain, “came from her very own home in Highgarden.” Cersei smiled, “Set in Lannister gold.” Cersei replaced the necklaced and shut the drawer, then turned to Daenerys. “Even the fur that lined her hunting cape and boots were brought in from the North. The upkeep of that queen,” she said, filling that last word with some disdain, “supported families in the Seven Kingdoms. They loved their queen.”

Daenerys plucked a lemon cake from the saucer served before her and took a bite of the sweet. The taste of it exploded in her mouth. She had not had anything as tasty, and her lips curved with the pleasure it brought to her. 

“In return, she made a spectacle of how much she loved them.” Cersei made her way towards the window. “That is the kind of queen these people want—born and bred a Westerosi instead of a foreign invader.”

Missandei quietly placed the dusk rose tea before Daenerys. She picked it up and sipped on it, the perfect muted taste sat well with the lemon cake. 

“But love cannot sustain a throne,” Daenerys repeated. “You know that.” Because no matter how wide Cersei’s web of lies grew, Daenerys knew that to have grown three children with one man—even one that this backwards society saw as sinful relations—one had to love, and love truly. She shrugged. “Margaery Tyrell found out the second she burned in the sept. No, the Iron Throne needs more than love. She needed power, which you never let her truly have.”

To Daenerys’s surprise, she thought she saw a tinge of regret in Cersei’s eyes. The older woman said, “Do you truly think I had a choice?” Cersei shook her head with a small, thin, sad smile. 

“You were queen, and then you were not. You could not let others have power.” Daenerys nodded. “I understand well enough.” After all, without strength, without the ability to ride, Drogo’s power had gone and had she not grasped the power and loyalty of the khalasar Daenerys shuddered to think of what fate waited for her in the grasslands. Losing power would have meant surrendering the fate of her children to a younger queen. For a woman like Cersei, who had breathed and lived in power, it was a gamble too risky to take. 

“I guess there are truths that remain the same no matter the land you hail from,” Cersei murmured as she took another sip of her tea.

“I do not expect you to agree, but I am from Westeros, my lady,” Daenerys said, putting an emphasis on the title she had used. Cersei’s eyes narrowed at the diminution of her position. “I was conceived right here in the capital, born princess of Dragonstone.” Daenerys placed her cup back on the saucer. “Remind me, my lady, since I have been far too long removed from my kingdom—did you come to the throne by blood as well?”

Daenerys started at the sudden noisy of breaking glass. She looked down at the shattered cup on the floor, then up at where Cersei Lannister gripped the edge of the window. Daenerys shot up in her seat and called for Missandei. Cersei met her eyes with a look of stunned pain, one hand grasping at the front of her dress, then shooting low under the curve of her belly. A ragged scream tore from her throat. Hurriedly Missandei knelt by Cersei’s feet and gathered the heavy cloth of her dress. Daenerys’s eyes widened in horror at the sight of the trail of blood zagging and criss crossing path, until suddenly a flood of it drenched Missandei’s hands.

“No,” Cersei moaned. And the older woman tried as much as she could to hold herself up, eventually crumbling to the floor, a scream pealing from her chest. 

Daenerys watched in horror as the pain tore through Cersei Lannister, with her own fevered dreams whispering from the back of her mind. Daenerys could not tell which was memory or nightmare, but she knew this very pain had overcome her before. It happened too fast, with no time to call for help. Even still Daenerys bid Missandei run for a maester if one remained in King’s Landing. She grasped Cersei’s hands as the older woman cried out from the pain and helplessness. A warm body fully formed slid from between Cersei’s bloodied legs, met by its mother’s sobs.

When Missandei returned there was no maester at her side. Instead, it was young Griff still, useless in this regard. Daenerys flew to the closet and sought for a small blanket to use as a swaddle, and came back with a silk shawl instead. She reached for the child in its mother’s arms to wrap it, but saw the horror stark in Cersei’s face and knew.

The child was dead. Blue and dead like Rhaego, but perfect and fully formed. The child was crowned with golden hair that stuck tight to its tender scalp, its lips pursed as if suckling, eyes shut tight. “No,” Daenerys whispered. She took the child from Cersei’s grasp, to save him as she had not tried with Rhaego, She rubbed the child’s chest and back the way she had seen the women do in the khalasar, and dipped her finger into the child’s mouth to clear its throat. When these did not work, Daenerys patted the child’s back and slapped its bottom.

The child did not wake, and Cersei took it with trembling arms. Him. Cersei took him, Daenerys corrected, seeing the child’s parts.

From behind her, someone clutched her elbows and helped her rise. Her dress was bloody as she was led backwards and away from the scene. She heard the crushing sound beneath his boot as Griff walked over Cersei’s broken cup.

“Set it away,” he said quietly.

Missandei looked back at him in horror, and hurriedly put aside the tea as Cersei howled her despair in the corner. 

When they were at the steps outside Daenerys slowly turned to him as truth dawned. “The child was large and healthy.”

“A child for a child.”

She drew a trembling breath. “The tea—“ An abortificant. Her hand flew to her own belly.

“You are not hurt. Neither is your child. I brought you your own tea, so you would not take Strickland’s.” He shook his head. “They think that is the easier solution to take away any other claim to the throne. But I have my honor,” Griff said. Honor. “I will not have the blood of my blood on my hands.”

Honor. 

Honor that saved her child to the loss of another innocent one.

And then she found herself hitting him, and he was wearing a breastplate but she could not even feel the hurt of her bare skin pounding against beaten metal. “Children are not the enemy.” Far too long the children had suffered over the fate of the throne. Rhaegar’s children—child—daughter—she could not even decide if he was or war not. Rhaego. Viserion. Even Viserys and herself who spent their lives running. For that throne. All for the throne and this power it seemed to have. He caught her wrists.

“I saved your child. I could have not, and started my own line now, than months down the road after you birth it. Remember that.”

Daenerys scowled and pulled away. From the top of the steps she stumbled, but he caught her and wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. In her precarious position she was unafraid, because she had proven now at least he needed her so much more than she needed to lull him into protecting her. And she said the worst thing she could accuse him, if he truly believed he was Rhaegar’s son, the prince who would have just as possible died in the sack. “You are just as bad as the Lannisters and the Baratheons. They killed your sister, and you did nothing when they killed Cersei’s son.” Daenerys licked her lips, and then she said softly, “Rhaegar would be ashamed of you.”

Young Griff released her, then stalked down the steps.

“Send a maester. We have lost the child. We will not lose the mother,” she called after him. 

“Cersei Lannister.”

“Not even Cersei Lannister. You have blackened your soul enough for a day, Griff.”

Daenerys gathered herself and pushed back inside the chamber. She found Cersei wrapping the small body in a tight bundle, her back straight even as she pulled herself up unsteadily. She could see the pain had drawn the older woman’s face tight. Even in the regal way that Cersei pulled herself together Daenerys could see the streaks of blood on her cheeks, where Cersei would have hurried to surreptitiously wipe her cheeks dry.

Daenerys shut the door closed. She declared, “We are going to escape. You are coming with me.” Cersei turned to her, eyes dead and blank. “We will return with the maester.”

She motioned for Missandei, and they made their way down the steps, waiting for Griff to send the man. Daenerys looked at Missandei. “You failed me once. Look at what they have done. I will not allow them to harm my child, Missandei.”

Missandei shook her head. Her face was pale, and Daenerys did not doubt the disbelief in the Handmaid’s face. “They swore they would not harm you. Lord Varys said he worked all these years to ensure you have the throne, your grace.”

“To sit consort for this pretender!” Daenerys exclaimed. “Whatever they say about sending my child to the wall, or as ward of another house will change, especially if it is a son. Look what they had done to Cersei Lannister, just because they are afraid of any remaining claim to the throne the child would have.” 

And then, Missandei’s demeanor melted, and the smooth shoulders slumped before Daenerys. Missandei covered her face and her back shook. Daenerys did not offer a comforting hand, nor assuring words. She waited until Missandei looked back up with wet cheeks.

“Will you send a raven to Winterfell, Missandei? Will you let Jon know my child and I are alive?”

Missandei hesitated, then nodded.

“Do you fear Grey Worm will know what you have done?” When Missandei nodded, Daenerys finally offered, “He was fond of you.”

“He is nothing if not loyal to you, my queen. He will be angered.” And then Missandei sighed. “Such is my fate. I will face my fate after I have done my part to save your grace.”

“Send a raven to Winterfell. And then tonight we will leave. I am not spending another night here.” Craven cowards these men were. To think that they called themselves lords. 

“What is the plan, your grace?”

Daenerys turned back to the chamber and walked past Cersei, who had since lain down curled beside the infant. She steeled herself from pity, stopped herself from seeing herself as a child bride who had lost a son. She was beyond that now. Now, she was going to save herself. She threw open one of the drawers and clutched a handful of jewels. Daenerys lifted each one, then selected one piece. Too much would raise suspicions faster. She stepped outside and placed the bracelet in Missandei’s hand. “Have it melted, then bring me the gold and the gem. I need to buy a ship. Tell Grey Worm I need him waiting at White Harbor.”

tbc


End file.
